


With or Without You

by Fionakevin073



Category: The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Angst, Estrangement, F/M, Heartbreak, Hope, Illness, Love, Mentions Of Infidelity, Near Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-01 10:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13996461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: Where Anne and Richard get a second chance. (Two Shot)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Okay, so I just finished The Sunne in Splendour and watched The White Queen in the course of two weeks. So, my heart is overwhelmed with Anne/Richard feels. Like, in the Sunne in Splendour, they are the OTP’s of OTP’s. I cried reading that book. It was freaking amazing and beautiful and yeah, I could go on. I don’t like the White Queen as much, though I found the show entertaining and I haven’t read the book. And I have no intention of doing so. Anyway, this fic is indeed set in the White Queen universe and is about Anne/Richard. Anne and Richard’s son died in April of 1864. This story takes place shortly thereafter, in June of the same year. It is very historically inaccurate. I hope you enjoy! This is a two shot btw. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Fionakevin073

 

i. 

 

Anne is dying. 

 

She knows this. 

 

It is as real as her sister and son being dead. 

 

Anne breathes out heavily, her body weak and fragile. Her chambers are dimly lit by the candles surrounding her but her eyes still burn because of the light. She stirs against her pillows, big and fluffy like she’s always liked them, and tries to become comfortable once more. 

 

_Let me die,_ she thinks miserably, _please._

 

Her heart roars in pain as she thinks of Ned, her beautiful boy, dead and at peace. _I can’t bare this. I can’t. I’m ready to face His judgment._

 

There isn’t much reason for her to still be around. And she doesn’t just mean around court, or as a Queen. Anne is referring to her time on this Earth. She yearns for peace. Yearns for the discomfort to leave her body and the tremendous ache in her heart to ease as she leaves this life to go to her son, Edward. 

 

She coughs weakly, and it pains her to keep her eyes open, pains her to breathe. To live. She wonders if this is how Isabel felt in her last moments. But their circumstances weren’t the same. Isabel had children to live for.  Anne knew that George had many faults, adultery one of them, but that he loved her sister in his own twisted way, she has no doubt. And Anne has. . . Anne has none of that. 

 

Not a husband who loves her. Not anymore, anyway. 

 

And her son. . .

 

Tears pierce her eyes as her grief overcame her once again and this time she did not have the strength to muffle her cry of pain. Tears trickle down her face as she cries silently, alone. _Let me die now,_ she thinks, _with what little dignity I have left. Let me die alone._ She didn’t want to see Richard or _her._

 

She just wants to be left alone. 

 

It takes mere moments for her tears to subside and Anne slumps back against her pillows, dazed and nauseous. She closes her eyes and wishes for sleep; for the deep slumber of death. But though sleep does come, death does not. 

 

When Anne wakes next, it’s because of the light from the sun. Someone had opened her window shutter, allowing the light from outside to flood through the windows for the first time in days. Anne groans meekly, her eyes burning at the brightness. 

 

“Your grace,” one of her ladies murmurs, noticing that she was awake. 

 

But Anne barely noticed. She feels light, dreary. Her discomfort has begun to fade or more accurately, she has begun to feel numb to the pain. She feels cold, dangerously cold, but it was a welcome reprieve, for she knew in her heart that death was near. _Isabel, Ned,_ she thinks, a grim smile appearing on her pale, chapped lips, _I’ll be with you soon. I promise._

 

She shied away from her lady’s care and murmured for her to go away, though she did not say anything about the shutters. Anne glances warily at the window and took notice of the bright sun, of the few clouds in the sky. _God smiles down at me,_ she thought, _He welcomes me home._ The thought brought her comfort and she nestled against the pillows, satisfied. 

 

Her suspicions were right. 

 

As time dragged on, Anne could feel her senses grow duller. Her vision was blurred and her strength was depleting by the second. By midday, her breathing was so heavy she was sure her guards could hear it from outside the windows. Few of her ladies lingered nearby, watching her with a concerned eye. They alternated between caring for her, some would dab at her sweaty forehead with a cloth, others would read passages of her favourite books and others would merely sit by silently, offering her comfort the best way they knew how. 

 

They all rarely allowed Elizabeth to venture in her chambers. The girl had appeared once that day, and through her blurred vision Anne took notice of how her ladies sent the girl looks of such intensity and warning that the girl had fled shortly thereafter. Probably to Richard. He had not come to her today. Or yesterday. Not that she knew of. 

 

But Anne was past the point of caring, for she knew her time was near. She was so absorbed in her imminent demise that she barely even noticed the sudden shadow that was slowly consuming the sun. Isabel was calling to her. Her eyes were so gentle, so blue. So welcoming. She could hear Ned’s laughter in her ears. Death was just within her reach and Anne— Anne was reaching for it. 

 

“Anne, did you notice what’s happening outside?” 

 

Richard. 

 

Richard had come. 

 

She barely noticed in her delirium. 

 

“My sister is here,” she whispered, to no one in particular, “my son is here.” They were so close now. So close. 

 

Just within arms reach. 

 

“Anne?” 

 

_Ned._

 

_Isabel._

 

_I’m home._

 

“Anne?”

 

Anne feels her eyes close. 

 

—

 

_“Anne.”_

 

_It’s a voice that she hasn’t heard for a long time, save for in her head._

 

_“Isabel!”_

 

_Anne leaps into her sister’s arms, hugs her tightly, sobs leaving her throat. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”_

 

_“I’ve missed you too, Anne.”_

 

_But something’s wrong._

 

_Anne can feel her sister slipping from her arms. The tighter she holds on, the more Anne can no longer feel her._

 

_“Mother!”_

 

_Ned is calling her from a distance._

 

_Her sweet, precious boy. Her life._

 

_“Ned!” she screams back, pulling back from Isabel. “Where are you?”_

 

_“I’m coming Mama! I’m coming!”_

 

_But her vision is turning white— Anne can barely register her surroundings._

 

_“Isabel, what is happening? Am I to be sent to Purgatory?”_

 

_“No, my darling Anne,” Isabel tells her, a sad smile on her lips, “You’re not long for this world. You’re being called back.”_

 

_Anne shook her head fervently, desperation making her eyes fill with tears._

 

_“Please no,” she sobbed, shaking her head. Something loud echoes through the space— a groan or a roar of some kind. It doesn’t sound human._

 

_“Mother wait for me!”_

 

_“Ned!” she screeched, as Isabel began to slip from her vision._

 

_“I love you Anne,” her sister tells her and then she’s gone._

 

_A horrified look appears on Anne’s features as she realises that the noise is screaming her name._

 

_“Mama don’t go!”_

 

_“I’m coming Ned!”_

 

_Anne ran in the direction of his voice— please God, don’t take me now, let me see my son one last time before I’m sent to hell, please please please. She runs as fast as she can, can even hear her boy’s footfalls and they’re close, so close to each other, their hands are inches apart and she can see his wide eyes, so like his father’s and—_

 

Anne gasps. 

 

ii. 

 

“It’s a miracle,” the physician was saying, astonished. “A miracle. A sign from God himself.” 

 

Anne did not feel like a miracle. 

 

As a matter of fact, she barely felt anything besides unbearable anguish. Her throat was still sore from earlier. 

 

It had taken her a while after she woke to realise that the woman screaming was her. Anne stares at the wall in front of her blankly, not even offering the physician a nod of recognition or acknowledgement. Her eyes were clouded with memories and visions that no one else could see. She was staring at ghosts no longer there. 

 

“The King’s Grace,” the physician said, in awe, “You commanded her back to life. The power of God is in your blood, your grace.” 

 

That drew Anne’s attention. She turned her head stiffly, to stare unwaveringly at Richard, who still seemed in a state of disbelief. He looked old. Tired. Broken. 

 

Anne hates him. 

 

She was not sure how long it took for the physician to leave. He raved about Richard some more, made some more comments about God’s blessing and whatnot, before leaving to tell the courtiers of the Queen’s astonishing survival. 

 

The silence between them hangs heavy and Richard looks on the verge of collapse, but Anne does not care. Hatred burns inside of her, from her stomach to her throat, a viciousness that she had felt for few others, such as Marguerite d’Anjou and Edward of Lancaster. But most of all, she felt grief. Paralysing, heart-tearing grief. She was so close to Ned. So close to reaching him. To being happy. 

 

“Why couldn’t you just let me die?” she whispers finally, her voice course. 

 

Richard jumped at the sound of her voice, his grey eyes widening as he comprehended her words. 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“I wanted to die. I was ready to die and be with my son!” 

 

Anne did not care for the expression on his face— did not care at all if she caused him hurt or anger. All she could feel was her fury. Her relentless, uncontrollable fury. He approached the bed, whether to comfort her or reproach her, Anne did not know. 

 

She did not give him the chance to speak. 

 

“Don’t come near me!” she spat viciously, her eyes stinging. “I hate you. I hate you. My God, I despise you. You took me from my boy!” She was sobbing now, her distress finally unleashed. “I was willing to die! I was willing—“ Anne couldn’t breathe. Richard was stricken. The sorrow on his face undeniable. And suddenly she remembered the night of Ned’s funeral, when she accused him of killing his nephews, how his eyes had gone unnaturally round, full of horror and unmistakeable hurt, all more pronounced by his grief. 

 

Her distress was so loud that it attracted attention from outside. Soon, her chambers were full of her ladies and court physicians, who somehow knew the source of her agony. They ushered the King out of the room and— 

 

And Anne soon knew nothing, saw nothing, for she was forcibly given a sleeping draft. 

 

iii. 

 

“My lady, please eat.” 

 

Anne does not move. 

 

Does not even glance at her. 

 

“Please. Do not waste away.” 

 

“My lady please.” 

 

It’s been two days since _it_ happened. 

 

Two days. 

 

Anne buries her head deeper under the covers, eager to escape Veronique’s pleading gaze. 

 

“Leave me,” she commands tonelessly, with her back to her. 

 

“The physicians say that your appetite should be returning now,” Veronique comments pleasantly and Anne can feel the mattress dip where Veronique sits. If it were anyone else, it would be a serious breech of decorum. But not with her. Veronique knew her too well, too intimately for that. 

 

“Leave,” she commands once again. 

 

“No.” 

 

Anne’s body tenses with annoyance. 

 

“I am your Queen,” she says lowly, irritated, “Leave me.” 

 

Anne sits up slowly, her head already beginning to throb due to the movement.

 

“You are a Queen who is wasting away, my lady. Please eat, at the very least. Or drink some water. Regain some weight. Some colour in your cheeks.” 

 

“You have no right to talk to me this way,” Anne’s voice breaks at the end of the sentence and she dissolves into a coughing fit. Veronique offers her a cup of wine and Anne gladly takes it and calms down in moments. She is still very weak and fragile. 

 

But her sickness is gone. 

 

There is no more blood in hankerchiefs. No more sweats or fevers. 

 

Astounding, the physicians said. 

 

Anne wanted to slap them. 

 

“Cherie,” Veronique says gently, “Please eat. Please get out of bed. You said you were a Queen earlier, so be one. You have the chance. The opportunity. Please. The court—“ 

 

“Is doing just fine without me,” Anne interrupts and hands her the empty cup. 

 

She observes her friend, noticing the freckles on her cheeks and the circles around her dark eyes. She’s touched, really, at how worried she looks about her. They’d been through a lot together. Veronique had been one of her handmaidens when she was married to Edward of Lancaster. They’d rarely been apart since. 

 

“Thank you for your concern, Veronique.” 

 

She means it. 

 

Truly. 

 

Tears appear in Veronique’s eyes as she grasps a hold of her hand and presses a kiss to her. 

 

“I thought you had died,” she admits quietly, “We all thought you had stopped breathing.” 

 

Her words send a sharp bang of pain through her chest. 

 

“I’m tired,” Anne confesses, looking around her chambers. “I’m so tired.” 

 

“You’ve had a horrible year,” Veronique says, holding onto her hand even tighter, “It is over now. You can begin anew.” 

 

Anne smiles. 

 

It’s only slightly bitter. 

 

“Maybe,” she agrees. 

 

“Please eat.” 

 

“Veronique—“ 

 

“God has given you another chance, my lady. Do not take advantage of it. I say this as your friend. As someone who loves you. As someone who knows you would say the same if our positions were reversed.” 

 

Anne wants to say no. 

 

She desires it with all the strength she can muster. Her skin is clammy. Her hair is like a bird’s nest. She is barely holding onto her sanity. 

 

Regardless, she nods. 

 

iv. 

 

Anne had never hated court as much as she did now. 

 

When she was a child, it had been exciting. Something to look forward to. After Lancaster, after the damage done by him and his mother, court had turned into a nightmare. Something that she dreaded with every fibre of her being. When she became Queen, it had been exhilarating. She had so much power. So much. She enjoyed it far more than she should have. 

 

But after Ned. 

 

After the rumours. 

 

After her illness and miraculous recovery. . . 

 

Court was the very definition of hell. 

 

Anne rarely, if ever, ventured out of her rooms. The farthest she had reached in two weeks was her solar. Other than that, Anne shut herself away. She worked on her knitting and read. Prayed. Repeated the same prayer over and over in her mind. She slept a lot. But for the most part, Anne merely existed. 

 

But her excuses were running short. 

 

Soon, she was expected to return to court entirely, like before. 

 

The doctors had recommended her a few weeks rest and time away, for risk of infection, but now her time was running out. 

 

_I’m a barren Queen,_ she thinks, _sickly and growing older by the day. I have no reason to be here. Richard must have realised this by now. He must have. So has everyone else._

 

They were all whispering about her when she got sick. Mocking her behind her back. Pitying her because her husband shamed her in front of everyone. Anne almost grimaces at the thought of returning to those vipers. To those twisted little games. 

 

Anne no longer had any desire to be Queen. 

 

Death had been her escape. 

 

But death was no longer within her grasp. 

 

Already, Anne felt stronger. 

 

Not healthy, but her breathing is now more steady. She can move easily now, without wanting to faint at the slightest movement. Anne would have to endure years and years of this court. Of this life. Of a crown weighing heavily on her head. 

 

Anne sighs loudly, thankful that she had dismissed her ladies for the day. She moves towards the window and glances outside. The courtyard is surprisingly empty, with only a few people scattered around here and there. _I want to go home,_ she thinks, clasping her hands together, _I wish to go back to Warwick Castle, to Middleham. I wish to leave this wretched place and all its people. I want to grieve for my boy. My lovely boy. If I could leave here, if there was a way—_

 

The thought comes to her so suddenly she loses her breath. 

 

The sheer brilliance of the idea makes her stumble. _How could I have not suggested this earlier?_ she thinks, almost hysterical. _I need to talk to Richard. He must see._

 

“He has to,” she says out loud, “he must see reason. I can go home. I can finally leave here.” She starts to pace in her excitement, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. She paints quite a picture; flushed, excited, almost to the point of madness. She must have caused some commotion, because her guards are in her room in an instant, wide eyed with concern. 

 

“Your grace?” they question tentatively and it suddenly occurs to Anne how mad she must look. _Not only am I a barren queen,_ she thinks, _I am a mad one too._

 

But she doesn’t stop rambling or pacing. 

 

“Richard must see— he must— How can he not? Richard—“ 

 

They must understand enough of her ranting because one of the soldiers disappears in search of the King. Some of her ladies enter the room, looking panicked and wary at the commotion in their lady’s chamber. 

 

“Anne,” Veronique calls out, approaching her boldly. 

 

Anne stops pacing for a moment, her eyes wide and distracted. 

 

“I can go home, Veronique,” she says in french. “I can leave here.” 

 

“Your grace, I do not understand—“ 

 

“Anne.” 

 

Anne whirls around to look at Richard, her heart leaping with excitement at the sight of him. She forgets her hatred, her anger and hurt. All of her emotions are channelled into this one idea. Her passion is so strong her hands tremble. 

 

“Leave us,” Richard commands swiftly and soon enough everyone is fluttering out of her room, with Veronique shooting her once last look. 

 

“I can go home,” she says finally, once the door is safely closed. “I can leave here and you- you can have more heirs and—“ 

 

Richard’s expression shifts from confusion to. . . Anne doesn’t quite know. 

 

“Divorce, Richard,” Anne gasps, her cheeks flushed. “We can obtain a divorce from the Pope and then you can remarry and have more children—“ 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“No, before you say no— we can do this reasonably. Us getting a divorce may be seen as you shaming me, but if we do it right! My god Richard, if we do it right, it will be beneficial for us both. You can strengthen your international relations and have more children and I-I can go home!  Be at peace. You don’t need me here— the court— the court will survive without me. Divorce is the only way.” Something catches in Anne’s throat as she finishes her sentence, and it sends her into a coughing fit. 

 

Richard comes to her immediately, his grey eyes wide as he puts a hand in between her shoulder blades. 

 

“Anne?” 

 

But Anne does not want his comfort. 

 

She wants his approval. 

 

She needs it. 

 

So she shies away from him, covering her mouth in order to stifle her coughs. 

 

“Divorce,” she manages to utter in between gasping breaths. “We must.” 

 

She can’t tell what Richard is thinking. His face is like stone. A curtain has come over his eyes and Anne can not see through. Not anymore. Anne waits in anticipation, her heart hammering away in her chest. 

 

“You need rest,” he comments finally, not meeting her anxious gaze. “We can discuss this when you are well.” 

 

“I am well! Richard please—“ 

 

“You must sleep and come to your senses—“ 

 

Anne is too flabbergasted and frustrated to do anything more than hough and throw her hands up. 

 

“I told you once that if I had the chance, I would go back and never have been Queen. I meant it.” 

 

“Sleep, Anne—“ 

 

“There isn’t any reason for me to be here anymore!” 

 

Anger consumes her now. The same anger she felt after she had woken. Her hurt is starting to rewaken. Her intensity is beginning to fade. Richard looks taken aback at her words— for only a moment. 

 

“Rest,” he says finally. 

 

Anne is about to protest but he sends her a look that tells her not to argue. Not now. 

 

— 

 

Anne is up early in the next day and much to her surprise, Richard is already in her chambers. It does not look as though he’d been there for too long, standing in front of her bed, but Anne is startled to see him nonetheless. It takes all of her strength not to gasp with fright at the sight of him. 

 

“Your grace,” she murmurs, trying to ignore the sight of her ladies watching them with alarm, suspicion and open curiosity. There is a small part of her that bristles at the sight of Lady Elizabeth, but Anne pays it no heed. Her only focus is on Richard and his answer. 

 

_Surely he must be ecstatic that I’m agreeing to the idea,_ she thinks, _he must have been waiting for me to bring it up, all this time. Especially after I survived my illness. . ._ Anne wonders briefly as to why he’s doing this here. If he’s going to divorce her, she’d rather he not tell her for the first time in front of his mistress. 

 

“I have talked to the court physicians,” he tells her stiffly. “And they have recommended that you spend some time in the country, to rest and recover your health. The choice is yours Anne, if you want it. It will give us both time to think over your request.” 

 

He makes no other reference to the divorce. 

 

Shock renders her immovable for a few moments; uncomprehending. 

 

“You’re letting me return to Warwick Castle?” she asks tentatively, unable to truly believe it. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

He doesn’t seem to be happy about it. If anything, Anne can trace hints of hesitation in his dark eyes. But she doesn’t care, not now. 

 

“I’ll leave within the week,” she hears herself say, but she still feels out of place. As though she were somehow not in control of her body. _Thank you God,_ she says, reciting a quick prayer in her mind. “Margaret and Teddy are to come with me.” 

 

“Naturally.” 

 

“Thank you, Richard.” 

 

He gives her a stiff bow and leaves. 

 

v. 

 

The court is buzzing about her impending leave from London. 

 

Anne is not quite sure how the news got out, but she truly doesn’t care. She spends most of her time dividing her coffers and chests and makes no attempt to hide that this leave is for a while. A long while, if she has it her way. 

 

No one dares question her as to why she is packing so much. 

 

The story that someone—Richard, she guess— fed the court is that she’s retreating to the country to focus on her health. To grieve. 

 

Which is true. 

 

They just said it would be for a short awhile. 

 

But if Anne does ever return to court, she hopes it will not be as Queen. 

 

She hasn’t talked to Richard since he told her she could go to the country. Not really, anyway. Merely frivolous matters and terms of acknowledgment. The distance is great between them. Greater than it ever was. They no longer have their son to tie them together, to share. To love. There is nothing of theirs anymore. They don’t share a throne— not anymore, not for long—, they no longer share a bed. They no longer even share a conversation. 

 

They’re strangers. 

 

Anne is still not completely healthy. She feels stronger yes, but her appearance is ghostly. Her skin is abnormally pale, the lines on her face hardened by grief and illness and her eyes have this hollow quality to them that make her look a thousand years old. She looks as tired and drained as she feels. 

 

“My lady?” Veronique asks from behind her. 

 

Anne is looking out of the window, down into the courtyard. She does this often. Too often. Anne isn’t sure what she expects to see; maybe its Richard and the Rivers girl. Maybe its more soldiers. Maybe its news about the Tudor boy in Brittany. 

 

Anne isn’t sure. 

 

But she still does it. 

 

For the last night now, since she leaves court tomorrow.

 

“Yes?” she replies, absentmindedly. 

 

“The King told me to inform you that he intends to visit your chambers tonight.” 

 

Anne stiffens at her words and turns sharply to stare at her. 

 

Her ladies tutter at Veronique’s words and Anne is uncomfortable. More than uncomfortable. 

 

“Oh,” she says carefully, and does not elaborate further on the subject despite her ladies inquisitive gazes. Anne tries not to— truly she does, but her gaze flickers to the Rivers girl. But Anne can not bare to look at her for long, not long enough to take notice of her expression anyway. Anne can’t bring it in her to care about whether or not Richard truly loves the Rivers girl, but she is far too tired to deal with the knowledge that he bedded her, or to look at her triumphant gaze. 

 

Anne used to pride herself on being a forgiving person. Truly. Even her hatred for Edward of Lancaster had begun to fade. Forgiveness, is what the Bible teaches. But Anne knows deep in her heart that she will never forgive Elizabeth for going to Richard at their son’s funeral. For so blatantly basking in his affection—false or true— when she was grieving and ill. 

 

“The rest of you can go.” 

 

Veronique knows instinctively that she’s the one who stays. 

 

The other girls leave eventually, curtsying appropriately and leaving for the court festivities. Anne had stayed in her chambers, despite the court festivities being for her, citing her ill health. 

 

“Are you certain you wish to come with me to Warwick Castle?” she asks Veronique, not unkindly. 

 

“Of course I am,” she answers instantly. 

 

Anne is touched by her loyalty. 

 

“Thank you,” she tells her eventually,  glancing back towards the window. 

 

She can feel Veronique’s curiosity. Can feel her trying to find the words to ask the questions that everyone wants to ask her. But Anne isn’t ready to talk about this yet. Not now. Not with one last thing she has to do. 

 

“Veronique, I want to go see my son, before I leave.” 

 

Veronique does not look surprised. 

 

“Of course, your grace,” she says, traces of sympathy in her eyes. 

 

Veronique had loved her Ned too. Had comforted her after so many years of barrenness. Anne offers her a stiff smile but does not talk further. 

 

It’s hours before she ventures out of her rooms. 

 

Anne wants to see as few of her courtiers as possible and so she waited until most of the festivities were over before making her way to the chapel where her son was entombed. Only Veronique came with her. 

 

Anne had not been to this specific chapel since the funeral. 

 

It had been too difficult. 

 

Only two months, her Ned has been dead. 

 

Just two. 

 

It feels like a lifetime. 

 

The chapel is lit dimly by candles, but they offer Anne no comfort. She leans against one of the pillars for support, struggling to keep her tears at bay. 

 

“My lady—“ 

 

“No,” Anne rebuffs, not harshly, “I need to do this alone. Please.” 

 

Veronique nods, albeit reluctantly, and leaves Anne to her own devices. 

 

It takes Anne several moments to summon the strength to walk to where her son rests. Her precious boy. Her life. Who she was about to leave the next day. Guilt washes over her suddenly, in such overwhelming waves Anne can barely breathe. She’s leaving her son. Her boy. All alone. 

 

She kneels in front of his tomb and prays. 

 

_Dear Lord, please give me the strength to—_

 

Anne does not know how long she kneels there for. Only that it is for a while. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, clutching onto her rosary. “I love you so much.” 

 

She can still hear his pleading in her mind, begging her to wait for him. Not to go. She had been so close to reuniting with him. And then— then— she had returned here. Away from him. A tear trickles down her cheek as she murmurs a prayer. 

 

But then she’s sobbing. Her cries echoing through the chapel as she brings her hands to her mouth, trying to muffle the noise. Suddenly, arms are around her, holding her close. 

 

“My lady,” Veronique murmurs, hugging her tightly as her sobs begin to die. “He’s at peace now. He’s in heaven, in the hands of God.” 

 

“I know,” Anne says, and suddenly all of the things she wishes to say of him are on the tip of her tongue but— but— Veronique isn’t who she wishes to discuss her son with. As much as she wants to talk about him, she doesn’t want to now. Not with her. 

 

Anne returns to her chambers after she manages to regain her composure. Her eyes linger around the court, and she remembers everything that has occurred since Richard became Lord Protector. Remembers the chaos, the fear, the power. The power that was all too addicting. That she craved. She remembers how everything was good between her and Richard. They were partners. Or at least, she thought they were. 

 

Anne ponders this as she walks to her chambers. If things had been so good between her and Richard, how did they get so bad so quickly? If he loved her as much as he claimed, as much as she believed he did at some point, how did they stop so quickly? Perhaps he never loved her after all. Not truly. Not the way he said he did. Maybe all he felt for her was just desire clouded with pity and sympathy. 

 

Edouard of Lancaster had hurt her deeply. Had caused wounds that scarred her for years. Had hurt her so badly she felt the damage in her body for months. But he had never claimed to love her. She had known to expect his hatred, his distaste. Perhaps not how cruel he truly was to her, but she had gone into the marriage with a wary heart. 

 

But with Richard— 

 

It had been different. 

 

Anne enters her solar quietly and just as she moves to walk into her bedchamber, she hears his voice and _hers._ For a moment, Anne freezes, her mouth widening at their audacity. _They couldn’t wait? Just for one more day. He couldn’t have given shown me that respect?_

 

Anne enters the room calmly and a part of her delights at how they startle at the sight of her, with the Rivers girl looking away, suddenly demure. 

 

“My King.” Anne greets Richard flatly, her gaze lingering on the Rivers girl. “I don’t believe we require you to be here, Lady Elizabeth. Thank you.” If her voice is a little bit condescending well, Anne believes she’s justified. The girl flushes at her words and quickly hurries out of the room, after giving her curtsies. 

 

“I came to look for you,” Richard explains, looking slightly awkward as he tries to ease the palpable tension. “I was worried.” 

 

“I went to visit my son before my departure from court.” 

 

Richard flinches at the mention of Ned, as though the name were a dagger in his heart. But Anne is not moved by his pain. She is indifferent to him. Indifferent to the man that he’s become. 

 

“Why are you here, Richard?” 

 

Anne wants to be alone. Her visit to her son reopened wounds that Anne can barely bare to feel. 

 

“I wished to see you before you left.” 

 

Anne’s laugh is bitter and brief.

 

“Lets not fool ourselves Richard. Why are you really here?” 

 

The realisation dawns on her the moment the words leave her mouth. 

 

“Oh my. You came here to bed me. One final attempt before I leave.” 

 

Richard does not look at her and that is how she knows she’s right. 

 

“We’ve been over this Richard. There is no point in touching me.” 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“Though I suppose it would be beneficial for you, for me to become with child. It would show that God blesses you and would be a blow to Tudor’s cause. Your need to spite him finally drives you back to my bed.” 

 

Richard rears back, as though she slapped him. 

 

“Anne. . .” 

 

“I do not care anymore, Richard. We must obtain the divorce, we agreed—“ 

 

“Divorce?” 

 

Anne gapes at him, wondering whether or not he suffered some head injury that caused him to have bad memory. 

 

“Richard—“ 

 

“I thought you were mad with grief, I thought that— I thought that you just needed time—“ 

 

“I was serious. I meant what I said. There is no reason for me to be here!” Her voice is loud. So loud. Anyone outside her rooms can hear her. “It is the only logical solution!” 

 

Richard shakes his head, his mouth twisting with unspoken words. 

 

“You no longer love me! You can finally bed the Rivers girl to your hearts content. Or even marry her, to win your point with Tudor! I do not mind. Please. If we do this right, you can maintain the North’s support, the Neville’s support and strengthen your international relations.” 

 

“Our son—“ 

 

“My son is dead! He’s gone Richard! He no longer ties us together anymore.” 

 

Anne means to provoke him. To drive him away. But still, he did not move. Anne moves towards the bed, brushing past him. It’s the closest she’s been to him in weeks. 

 

“Please, just leave me.” 

 

“Anne, you know the reason I must do this.” 

 

Anne scoffs lightly at his words, her heart tightening in her chest as she stared at him. At the man, whom in the eyes of God and the law, was her husband. 

 

“To be quite frank with you Richard,” she says, her voice soft yet venomous. “I no longer care.” 

 

His expression resembled that of a wounded animal. There was a small, minuscule part of Anne that ached at how distant they were, how apathetic she was to Richard, how she hated his presence. But most of Anne was too tired and too angry to sympathise with Richard in any way. If he ignored her when she needed him most, then she could do the same. 

 

Richard nods and then his expression warps into one of careful indifference. 

 

“Very well,” is all he says, before stalking out of her chambers. 

 

Anne is relieved and if there’s a part of her that’s regretful, she shoves it away quickly. 

 

vi. 

 

Her return to Warwick Castle is bittersweet. 

 

On the one hand, her mother is there, peace is there, her _home_ is there. But, on the other hand, her son is everywhere. Everywhere is a way that he wasn’t in London. Warwick Castle had been his home, had been all of their homes. He had taken his first steps there, been born there. Within moments of arriving in the courtyard, she is bombarded with memories. Memories that agonise her. 

 

“Anne,” her mother says suddenly, opening her arms to her. 

 

Her mother’s eyes are full of grief and sympathy. 

 

There is no trace of triumph that Anne had secretly feared. No _I told you so._ Her mother had been right, all of those years ago. Richard did not love her. But she was wrong about one thing; it was Anne who wanted to be set aside. 

 

“Mother,” she responds and willingly enters her arms. 

 

“Oh I am so sorry,” her mother whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. 

 

— 

 

They don’t talk about it. 

 

Her sudden return from court. 

 

Her son’s death. 

 

Her illness. 

 

They talk of trivial matters. Of the weather, of Anne’s health, of what her mother has been doing since Anne became Queen. Anne dreads the inevitable confrontation, but for now, she savours the quiet. The freedom she feels at home. But there’s awkwardness too. The chambers she’s in is the one she used to share with Richard. 

 

Anne spends hours upon hours in her chambers, resting. 

 

It takes a full week of her return to Warwick Castle for her mother to finally speak of the past year. 

 

“Anne, why are you here?” she asks her, in the privacy of Anne’s chambers. 

 

Anne regards her mother seriously, looking for the words. 

 

“I asked Richard for a divorce.” 

 

Her words are plain. 

 

Her mother gasps, her eyes widening with horror as she stares at her youngest daughter. “Why?” 

 

Anne is the incredulous one now. 

 

“Why? I am barren. My son is dead. Richard is besotted with the Rivers girl—“ 

 

“Grief does things to a man—“ 

 

“This began long before Ned died,” Anne interrupts sharply. 

 

“He is your husband Anne, it is your duty to—“ 

 

“To what? To look aside as my husband so clearly lusts over his niece? To accept his infidelity with silence and dignity? I can not. He was not even discrete about it mother. He flaunted his affection for the girl in front of _everyone,_ even at Ned’s funeral. He even had us wearing matching gowns. Richard visited me seldom when I was deathly ill. I have no duty towards him. None.” 

 

“Anne. . “ Her mother is at a loss for words. 

 

“You were right,” Anne admits, only slightly bitter. “Richard did not love me. He does not love me. Not in the way he claimed.” When her mother looks alarmed and defensive, Anne raises a hand to stop her from talking. “If it comforts you, he seemed rather resistant to the idea. Though I am not too sure why. He needs an heir. Stability. A powerful ally. Marriage is the perfect opportunity.” 

 

“What if you are not barren? You gave him Ned.” 

 

“And one stillborn daughter who I miscarried. Nothing else. No other indication that I have ever been with child. After more than ten years of trying.” Anne casts her mother a doubtful, if slightly mocking look. “There is no grain of truth to that argument. I can only assume that he means to begin negotiations with the Pope soon.” 

 

Anne meets her mother’s dark eyes for only a moment, and is annoyed at the pity she finds in those dark depths. She would have preferred triumph. 

 

“And you?” Her mother questions finally, taking a sip from her wine cup. “What will happen to you?” 

 

“I do not know,” Anne confesses, linking her hands together. 

 

“Richard will most likely grant me some title or lands, since he is entitled to all of my inheritance because of the law his brother passed.” But Anne does not want to dwell on the future. It causes her to think and Anne wants nothing less than to do that. For if she does that, she’ll be consumed by all the emotions she’s tried to keep at bay. 

 

“I’m so sorry about your son,” her mother tells her, reaching over to hold onto one of her hands. “I loved him dearly.” 

 

“I know,” is all Anne replies, smiling thinly. “His death was quick.” 

 

Then her smile drops as her lips begin to quiver. 

 

“I wasn’t there. God forgive me, I wasn’t there with him. I was preoccupied with the Boys in the Tower, Elizabeth Grey and everyone. And God forgive me, I wasn’t there!”

 

But though her heart is agony, Anne is not crying. It surprises her to find that her mother is. 

 

“He’s at peace now. There’s nothing more I can do for him, except to pray for his soul, which is surely in heaven.” Anne recalls his voice in her ear, begging her to wait for him and she shivers. Suddenly, her mother is alarmed. 

 

“Anne, are you ill? I heard rumours that you were on your deathbed but I can scarcely believe it with how you are now.” 

 

“I was,” Anne admits, frowning. “The physicians said it was a miracle that I recovered so quickly.” 

 

Silence falls upon them, not quite awkward yet not comfortable either. 

 

“You’re here now,” her mother says, quite fiercely. “You’re home. It will all be alright now.” 

 

Anne’s gaze flickers to her once more. 

 

“Somehow, mother, I highly doubt it.” 

 

vii. 

 

One month passes. 

 

Anne mourns. 

 

Anne cries. 

 

Anne dresses. 

 

Anne reads. 

 

Anne eats. 

 

Anne sleeps. 

 

Anne survives. 

 

She is not quite happy. She isn’t ready to be happy again, not just yet. But she is peaceful. Veronique and her explore Warwick Castle. Spend days under the sun. Walk through the gardens. Her niece and nephew bring her comfort. There are no rebellions, no murder, no plots. 

 

Nothing like that. 

 

The only letters Anne receives from court are from the physicians, asking about her health. But Anne does not even read those. She requests Veronique to reply to them and simply seals the letters. Her health has begun to return fully now. Her skin is not quite so pale and she’s added on a little bit of weight to her hips and arms. 

 

But her eyes are still wary. Still haunted by ghosts that others can not quite see. 

 

Her son haunts the halls of Warwick Castle. His bed chambers is like a tomb in the middle of her home. But Anne has slowly begun to grow used to the ache. 

 

This peace is disrupted by the appearance of Sir Robert Brackenbury. 

 

Anne does not resent Sir Robert. Not at all. He had always been courteous to her and had relieved her conscious when he informed her that she was not responsible for the disappearance of her husband’s nephews. But her heart grows cold and uneasy when she sees him in the courtyard. She waits for him in her solar, her heartbeat quickening under her gown. 

 

“Sir Robert,” she greets, trying to keep her mask firmly over her features. 

 

She extends out her hand for him to kiss and after he does she waits for him to speak. 

 

“My lady.” 

 

His sentence dies on his lips. 

 

“It is a relief to see you have regained your health.” 

 

Anne smiles briefly, though with no warmth. 

 

“Why are you here?” 

 

He shifts under her gaze. 

 

“The King wished for me to come, your grace.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Anne does not care that her tone is free of all formality or courtesy.

 

“He wishes for me to keep an eye on your health.” 

 

“And you’ve suddenly become a physician.” 

 

“I volunteered to come here, my lady.” 

 

Anne is taken aback by that. He refuses to meet her eyes, despite her persistence to get him to do so. She recalls how he reassured her of her innocence, how he had offered her his arm after Richard had offered his to Elizabeth. And suddenly the coldness in her heart begins to thaw. 

 

“Thank you,” she says finally, rising to her feet. “It is a pleasure to have you here.” 

 

He blinks rapidly, clearly surprised at the sudden change in her tone. She links there arms together and smiles softly at him. “Welcome to Warwick Castle, Sir Robert.” 

 

—

 

Anne watches her niece and nephew play with their pups. Maggie looks so much like Isabel, with her dark hair and pale complexion, but Teddy looks more like George, though he has none of his father’s character. He is rather simple, their Teddy, but a gentle boy. Like—

 

Anne shies away from that thought and tries not to focus on the missing presence here, the third child who should be playing beside them. “Aunt Anne!” Teddy cries, noticing her in the doorway. They run up to hug her by the waist. She stays with them for awhile, watching them play and laughing at them when their pups lick them on the face. She had given them as a gift a week before and was deeply satisfied at the apparent delight on their faces. 

 

Anne wonders if they’re lonely. They were the only children at Warwick Castle, besides some of the servants and nearby townsfolk. She’s thinking about this when Veronique and her mother enter the room. 

 

“Your grace,” Veronique says, curtsying quickly. 

 

“Why so excited?” Anne asks curiously, casting her mother a glance. 

 

“The market is going on in town tomorrow,” Veronique informs her, her cheeks flushing. 

 

“Can we please go?” Maggie asks excitedly, “Please, Lady Anne.” 

 

Teddy starts to plead along with his sister and Anne well, Anne can’t say no to all of them. 

 

“Alright,” she says finally, smiling a little. 

 

“But not for too long and only with several guards coming with us.” 

 

—

 

The market is pleasant.

 

They’re all welcomed by the locals and— and— 

 

They laugh. 

 

Veronique and Anne look at beautiful silks on display as Maggie and Teddy explore their surroundings, within Anne’s eyesight of course. Sir Robert accompanied them as well, though as a guard this time. 

 

They walk through the streets and Anne takes notice of how all the peasants bow and curtsey, how they eye her all the while, and it is moments like that where Anne realises that she is still a Queen in their eyes. A barren Queen. An unloved Queen. But a Queen nonetheless. 

 

Anne does not quite know what to think of that, and merely smiles and laughs. 

 

It takes several moments for her to notice the commotion going on in front of them. Anne moves forward instinctively, ignoring Veronique’s and her mother’s protests. “Sir Robert,” she says, standing next to him, observing how his hand reached for his sword, “What is happening?” 

 

“My lady, I do not know.” 

 

He sends her a worried glance and within a moment all the guards have surrounded them protectively. “Get my niece and nephew back to the litter with my ladies,” she commands, not taking her eyes off the commotion that has begun to attract more and more attention. Sir Robert glances at her, his blue eyes both stern and concerned. 

 

“You should go with them, your grace—“ 

 

“I think not,” Anne replies abruptly, striding forward the instant she realises one of the people yelling is a child. A young boy. “Stop them,” she dictates, and watches as the guards instantly move forward to halt the commotion, causing the crowd to disperse. Anne reaches the guards and quickly takes notice of the young boy grappling in Sir Robert’s eyes. 

 

“Rosie!” He yells, “She’s mine!” 

 

It’s then she observes the furious man being held back in some of her guards. He’s old and haggard looking and— 

 

Does not hold her attention. 

 

Anne’s focus is on the boy, on his straw coloured hair and pale skin and though he does not look at all like her son, she is suddenly struck by this maternal feeling that she’s felt few other times in her life. Though she does not speak, she hears of their dispute, of how the man tried to steal his dog and that sets off the man all over again and— 

 

“Give the man two shillings for his grievances and let him be on his way,” she hears herself, and spares the man a mere look of acknowledgment after he thanks her and runs away. 

 

“What’s your name?” she asks the boy gently, casting a knowing glance at the guards so they let him go. 

 

The boy looks wary as he stares at her, as though he expects her to turn into a monster and eat him alive. 

 

“Jack,” he murmurs, his eyes downcast. 

 

“That’s the Queen you’re talking to,” One of the guards reprimands, causing the boy’s eyes to widen even further. 

 

“You’re the Queen?” Jack asks, disbelieving. 

 

Anne chuckles lightly at his disbelief. 

 

“Indeed,” she confirms, sending the guard a look that causes him to flush. 

 

She eyes the boy, taking notice of how gaunt and thin he is, how his green eyes are hollow. His skin is covered in dirt and his clothes cling to his thin frame. “Where are your parents?” 

 

The boy flinches, his eyes growing watery. 

 

“Dead.” 

 

Sympathy makes her heart clench in her chest. 

 

“Do you have a home?” she questions. 

 

She knows the answer before he even begins to shake his head. 

 

“How old are you?” 

 

“Eleven.”

 

She can feel Sir Robert looking at her, his blue eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what she intends do. She sends him a glance, turns to look back at the boy, and smiles. 

 

viii. 

 

Jack becomes a part of their small little family. 

 

He has not title or lands, no noble blood in his veins, but he is an adventurous and loving boy, who reminds her so much of her Ned that it feels as though he has returned from the grave. But he could never replace Ned. Never. 

 

Not only because of their different appearances but because Ned is—was— her son. Her own flesh and blood. But she cares for the boy with a tenderness that she reserves only for her niece and nephew, and the presence of a third child with Maggie and Teddy helps ease the ache in her heart. 

 

Times passes. 

 

The hollowness around Anne’s eyes begin to fade. 

 

She looks healthier, healthier than she has in years. Her hair has regained its original lustre, her skin is not quite as pale as it used to be but her grief is still strong. There are some days where Anne does not even leave her chambers, does not venture out of her bed because the loss of her son is so strong. But she grows used to it. Grows used to the gaping hole in her heart that her son’s loss has left and takes comfort in the people around her.

 

She takes comfort in the way Teddy smiles brightens whenever she walks into the room, how Maggie has begun to look so much like Isabel the resemblance is uncanny and how Jack hugs her every night before he goes to sleep. She finds strength in her  prayers and the Bible, and the white rose bushes she ordered to be planted in her son’s honour. She takes comfort in the knowledge that she’s home. 

 

But questions begin to form in her mind. 

 

Her mother starts to corner her after dinner, asking her if she’s heard from Richard or if he will see the divorce or what will happen to them if he does?

 

Anne has no answers to these questions. Even Veronique has begun to send her these looks when she thinks Anne is not looking, looks that convey both curiosity and fear. Anne has not told her directly what she asked of Richard that night all those weeks ago, but Anne has no doubt Veronique has her suspicions. 

 

There is only one person at Warwick Castle that can give her any indication of what Richard has been doing these past few months. 

 

That person is Sir Robert. 

 

Anne has not thought much of Richard. 

 

To think of him stirs emotions that Anne can not identify. 

 

But Anne owes her family security and stability. She owes them answers. So, it is with a heavy but determined heart that Anne enters Sir Robert’s solar one night and asks the very questions she’s been trying to avoid since he arrived. 

 

“You know don’t you?”

 

Her tone is soft but firm. 

 

Her gaze unwavering. 

 

Sir Robert does not meet her eyes as he nods. 

 

Anne exhales sharply, her heart beginning to beat faster in her bosom. 

 

“Did he announce it to the court?” Her voice sounds steadier than she feels. 

 

“No.” His voice is gruff and course and his face darkens, as though the memory playing in his head haunts him. “He only told me, albeit reluctantly.” 

 

Why that reassures her, Anne does not know. 

 

“Has he started the negotiations?” 

 

“He said he wanted to wait until you had spent some time in the country. He thought— he thought some rest would change your mind.” 

 

Anne does not mean to display what she’s feeling, but her confusion and frustration must be plain on her face for Sir Robert offers her a comforting smile. She smiles back fleetingly, but in truth she is troubled. So very troubled. 

 

But something very queer occurs in this interaction between them. She had always admired and appreciated Sir Robert’s loyalty, had always relief upon him as an ally but now. . . It is different. When Anne told her mother of her pending divorce from Richard, she had had this fervent need to defend herself. To justify her attitude and excuse her behaviour in the eyes of God. But with Sir Robert, he had seen everything. Had witnessed the disintegration of their relationship. Had seen the distance grow between them and how Richard had begun to love Elizabeth Rivers. 

 

Anne knows that most people, most good, Christian people, disapprove of divorce. 

 

But Anne finds no judgement in his blue eyes. Anne realises that he knows something that Richard either hasn’t realised yet or will soon: that she has no intention of changing her mind.

 

And somehow, that warms her heart greatly, knowing that she has him on her side. 

 

— 

 

They’re walking in the gardens the next day, the sun shining brightly as they converse quietly. 

 

“It must be made clear that the divorce is mutual. If people were to think that Richard callously set me aside against my will, then his good name will be tarnished forever. We must ensure that the terms of our divorce are agreeable, and leave no room for doubt of our mutual respect. Whether or not I’ll be still addressed as Queen is troublesome, since even though our marriage will be annulled, I am still an anointed Queen in the eyes of God and the people. But I do not care much for that. In truth, there are few things that I require, and that is guardianship over my sister’s children, my mother’s and Veronique’s presence in my household, the restoration of some of my mother’s fortune and lands as income and—“ 

 

She hesitates. 

 

Richard is many things. Has done many things. And while he may not have loved her, he did love their son. Anne knows this like she knows how to breathe. But still, she must make sure. 

 

“The assurance that our son will still be remembered as the Prince of Wales.” 

 

Her voice sounds as shaken as she feels. They stop walking for a moment and Anne gives herself a moment to collect her composure. 

 

“I tell you this now, because you are the one Richard will write to. He knows I will not answer and thus you will be the messenger between us. I will answer any questions you have now, because I have no intention of ever discussing this again if I can help it.” 

 

ix. 

 

It is mid September when the first summon comes. 

 

Anne is in her solar with Veronique, her mother and Sir Robert, watching the children play by the fireplace. It had been surprisingly cold that day, so Anne had requested for the fire to be lit, and now she savours the warmth of the flames. 

 

It’s then that there’s a knock on the door. 

 

“Your grace.” 

 

Anne extends her hand for the servant to kiss and notices the letter in his hands. Immediately, her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. She dismisses the servant after grabbing a hold of the letter and she clutches it tightly as she tells the children that it’s time for bed. They grumble a little bit, but quickly comply, perhaps noticing the urgency and seriousness in her tone. 

 

She hands over the letter to her Veronique and takes a sip of her wine. Her hands begin to tremble slightly. 

 

“It is from the King,” Veronique declares, confirming what Anne already suspects. 

 

Her mother lets out a little gasp, flustered but Anne’s gaze is drawn to Sir Robert’s, who is already looking at her intently. Whatever that letter says, it will decide her future. Anne knows that. 

 

“Is it from his own hand?” 

 

“No,” Veronique responds, having become familiar with Richard’s handwriting over the past decade she has been in Anne’s service. 

 

“Open it,” Anne commands, perhaps with a little more bite than intended. “Now.” 

 

Veronique hastily complies, looking a little hurt at the harshness in her tone. But Anne has no room for sympathy or regret in her heart. She has to clutch onto the skirts of her dress to stop her hands from shaking so much. It takes a great deal of effort for her breath to stay even. 

 

Anne risks breaking her gaze from Sir Robert to glance at Veronique, who has begun to frown as she reads the letter’s contents. 

 

“The King—“ Veronique hesitates, biting down on her lower lip as she looks her fully in the eye. “The King asks for you to return to court within a fortnight from now.” 

 

Anne is more than taken aback. 

 

She looks back at Sir Robert, who does not seem all that surprised at these turn of events. 

 

“Leave us.” 

 

Her mother and Veronique know from her tone not to argue or question her. 

 

They leave quickly, with her mother shooting Anne and Sir Robert a meaningful glance before she exits the room. 

 

“Fool,” she swears suddenly, shock finally giving way to anger. “Stubborn fool.” 

 

“Why will he not see reason?” she questions, rising to her feet as she begins to pace the room. “Why will he not see sense?” 

 

Sir Robert sits there quietly as she berates Richard, eyeing her with his dark blue eyes in a manner that reveals none of his thoughts. 

 

“Why must he insist that I—“ 

 

Anne stops in her tracks. 

 

Horror makes her face grow pale as a thought dawns on her. 

 

“Unless he wishes to make a spectacle out of it, to show more favour to the Rivers girl in order to win his point with Tudor—“ 

 

“My lady, no.” 

 

Anne does not know when he had also risen and only realises it when he places a comforting hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look him in the eyes. 

 

“I do not believe that is the reason, your grace,” he says gently. 

 

“Then why?” 

 

Sir Robert smiles then and Anne is surprised at how sad it is. 

 

“Why do you think?” 

 

Anne jolts at the memory of Richard all of those years ago, pleading with her to let him help her, assuring her that he would— 

 

“I will not return,” she announces stubbornly. “I will not.” 

 

— 

 

But Richard does not give up. 

 

When Anne does not return to court after a fortnight, Richard sends another summons. But this time, it is one of his squires that comes with his request. 

 

Anne receives him in her solar and if she takes some satisfaction in how taken aback he looks by her appearance, God will only know. Her chestnut hair has been left down, to tumble down to her waist. Her gown is a beautiful emerald green that she had made weeks ago and it makes her look healthier than she sometimes feels. 

 

The boy is awkward yet determined, and if Anne were not so determined to get her own way, she would admire how the boy still meets her gaze despite his flushed cheeks, despite how cool she is to him. Curteous, yet cool. 

 

He knows that she’s aware of the reason why he’s here. 

 

Sir Robert stands close behind her, on her left and— 

 

“Your grace, the King wishes for you to come back to court.” 

 

The boy looks relieved after the words leave his mouth, as though they had been weighing down on him. 

 

Anne allows him one moment of respite. 

 

“You may inform his grace the King, that I have no intention of doing so.” She watches with grim pleasure as all the colour leaves his face. 

 

“My lady,” he says, gobsmacked. “It is the King’s wish for you to return to your rightful place at court.” 

 

“Is it the King’s command?” she questions sharply, wondering if Richard would truly go so far as to force her back to court. 

 

“No,” his squire— Dick, Anne believes his name is— admits sheepishly, “But it is his expressed desire—“ 

 

“And it is the Queen’s expressed desire to remain here at Warwick Castle,” she rebuffs. 

 

Sir Robert moves closer to her, placing a hand on the arm of her chair. She glances up at his eyes and nods at the silent request. Anne takes a deep breath and speaks once more. 

 

“Does the King have any other news for me?” she questions, gently this time. 

 

“Not that he mentioned, my lady,” Dick replies, still looking ill at ease. But then his face brightens somewhat as he remembers— 

 

“The King required me to inform you, Sir Robert, that you may return to court if you so wish.” 

 

Anne is surprised at how much she detests the idea. 

 

More importantly, she realises with a sudden jolt how much she has begun to rely on his council— on his presence. He is not exceptionally charming or particularly outgoing, but he maintains a steady, loyal presence that Anne has grown used to over these past few weeks and has grown to appreciate in a way that she never had before. Teddy, Maggie and Jack would be heartbroken at his departure as well. He had begun to teach the boys how to fight with wooden swords and he entertained Maggie with a patience and genuine fondness that not many men his age possessed. 

 

Anne does not want him to leave. 

 

He is silent for only a moment. 

 

“I would like to remain here, if her grace would like me to.” 

 

Anne snaps her gaze back to him and smiles, her heart leaping to her throat. 

 

“I would, thank you.” 

 

He nods obediently and returns to his original spot behind her. 

 

(It takes only a week for Richard’s next letter to reach Sir Robert. 

 

He tells him to inform her that he will send a diplomat to Rome within a moon’s time. 

 

Anne smiles, victorious at last and finally begins to believe her mother’s words; that everything will be alright now. That she will be happy.)

 

x. 

 

Duchess Cecily of York visits Warwick Castle at the beginning of November. 

 

Anne has not seen the woman since her coronation, has not written to her since Ned died and yet some part of her is pleased to see that she is doing well. 

 

Anne has not met a woman as brave or stubborn as the Duchess and there was once a time where she was closer to her than her own mother. 

 

But such times no longer exist. 

 

Duchess Cecily wastes no time in bringing up the elephant in the room the moment they are alone together. 

 

“You were married in the eyes of God,” Duchess Cecily reprimands, as though she were a child. “You bore him a child. You can not divorce. You took a vow—“ 

 

“I am well aware of what I did all of those years ago,” Anne snaps, her blue eyes blazing. “My marriage is none of your concern.” She sighs angrily, shaking her head. “Why did Richard tell you?” 

 

There’s cruelty in the Duchess’s smile and a small hint of rage. 

 

“He told me when I visited him at court,” she declares, “Which you would know if you were there or responded to his letters.” 

 

“Richard has not written to me.” 

 

“He has implored Sir Robert to get you to try, knowing that you would most likely burn his letters at first glance.” 

 

Anne does not respond and it is then that Duchess Cecily pounces. 

 

“My son is nearly at his wits end. He deals with vipers on a daily basis, vipers and backstabbers and money grabbers. He has to face the imminent threat from Tudor, whose support grows daily because of the foul rumours people have begun to spread about him. Some of which include murdering the Boys in the tower and others that he tried to poison you in order to marry his niece.” 

 

Anne did not know about the latter. 

 

“That is preposterous!” she protests, before she can stop herself. “My illness was a natural one. I was grieving— I almost died!” 

 

“You did die apparently,” the older woman responds seriously. “There was an eclipse on such a day. The common folk took it as an omen that Richard was out of favour with God, that to lose both his wife and son within the span of two months was a sure sign that he has sinned in taking the throne.” 

 

“But I did not die.” 

 

“Many say that you did.” 

 

Anne grows cold at this, remembering Isabel and her son, recalling how close she was to them, how light she had felt— 

 

“Then how did I miraculously return?” 

 

“Richard commanded you to.” 

 

Anne instinctively moves away from her. 

 

“Ah no one told you that. I can see it on your face. Richard was the one to command you back to life—“ 

 

“That is a lie,” Anne snaps, furious with herself for caring. 

 

“Maybe,” the Duchess allows, her face darkening considerably. “But regardless of what the truth is, many are claiming that you died and Richard used witchcraft to bring you back. That he conspired with the Devil yet again, and after witnessing this from heaven you fled from him. Realising that he was indeed a monster. A murderer.” 

 

Anne shakes her head. 

 

“That isn’t—no—“ 

 

“You accused him of murdering the two boys.” 

 

Anne is taken aback both at the reminder and of how much Richard had told her. 

 

“My son is at his wits end. His support his slipping, tensions with Tudor are rising and he has no heir to put on the throne, only various nieces and nephews. His good name has been dragged through the mud and he has lost his son, only unlike you, he can not run away to grieve. Now, in addition to that, he must deal with the knowledge that his wife refuses to see him and people are mocking him because of it. The King who could keep hold of his throne but not keep a hold of his wife.” 

 

“I’m sure the Rivers girl has gladly taken my place at his side. People used to say that even though I wore the crown, she was the Queen. Of the court, of the people, and of his heart. They used to whisper that he would set me aside and marry her, his own niece! He did nothing to refute those rumours, even in private. If anything, he encouraged them! Forcing us to wear matching gowns, dancing with her, showering her with attention while he ceased to come to my bed. He even went to her at our son’s—“ 

 

Anne stops then, her face red and her heart blood heated. 

 

_Have I not made this speech before?_ she wonders, rubbing a hand over her face, _have we not moved past this?_

 

“I am showing Richard the same respect he showed me,” she finishes softly. 

 

The Duchess is the one who is at a loss for words now and her blue eyes have shifted from stern with disapproval and gentle with sympathy. 

 

“I do not doubt that my son has sinned, but I am imploring you to find it in your heart to return to court, to make peace with my son, if only for a little while. Until the battle with Tudor is over—“ 

 

Anne laughs bitterly at her words, her mouth twisting as she realises the real reason why the Duchess has come. 

 

“You wish for us to reconcile merely so that Richard looks better in the eyes of the people and Lords. He wishes for me to return so that it looks better on him.” 

 

Anne does not know why the realisation hurts so much, why it brings furious tears to her eyes, and she does not want to. 

 

“Get out,” she says quietly, so quietly she doubts the Duchess heard her. 

 

“Your grace?” 

 

“Get out!” 

 

Duchess Cecily departs within the week. 

 

Anne is not sad to see her go. 

 

“Lady Anne, are you alright?” Jack’s voice is slightly apprehensive, as though he fears that she will snap at him. Anne has been more moody since her confrontation with the Duchess and has spent little time with them. 

 

Yet, despite her anger, Anne’s heart melts at the look of on his face. 

 

“Yes, my sweet boy,” she replies, extending her arm so that he can hug her. Anne looks out over the battlements, watching the Duchesse’s party grow further and further away. 

 

“Everything will be fine.” 

 

Her voice sounds more confident than she feels. 

 

xi.

 

 A month has passed since Duchess Cecily’s visit when Anne first receives word that Richard is ill. Sir Robert mentions it in passing, during one of their many walks, talks about how Richard mentioned that he had a small cold. The physicians say it will pass soon, he had told Sir Robert and since Anne has no reason to believe otherwise, she is not alarmed. 

 

The tension at Warwick Castle that emerged during the Duchess’s stay has finally begun to fade. Anne starts to feel secure again. She begins to look forward to the Christmastide celebrations, has already begun to look for presents for those closest to her and she’s at peace. 

 

That changes the day Francis Lovell comes to Warwick Castle. 

 

Anne is in her solar, knitting in silence with Veronique when she hears the commotion outside. There is yelling and crying and just as Veronique rises to her feet and her guards move to the door, Francis Lovell is there in the doorway, looking as though he had aged a thousand years. 

 

“Damn you I need to see her!” he yells, and sure enough, Sir Robert is close behind him, his face taunt as his hand reaches for his sword. 

 

“Enough!” Anne commands, sending Sir Robert a sharp look. She ignores Veronique’s imploring gaze and comes to her feet, discarding her work. She observes Francis, notices how there are dark circles around his eyes, how there is a thin layer of stubble on his cheeks, as though he had not shaven in days. In truth, Francis looks as though he has not slept in days. 

 

“What is it?” Anne asks, trying to hide her panic. “What has happened?” 

 

He had only looked this stressed when Buckingham had rebelled. 

 

“Richard,” he gasps, “It is the King.” 

 

Anne’s heart drops. 

 

“Is he—“ She takes a deep breath and reaches for her rosary. “Is he dead?” 

 

Veronique gasps quietly and even Sir Robert looks ill. 

 

“No,” he says and Anne nearly falls to the ground with relief. 

 

“But he is gravely ill my lady, feverish and grief-ridden—“ 

 

“Grief ridden?” Anne questions, clutching so tightly onto the beads she fears it her rosary will snap in half. 

 

“For your son,” Francis explains, perhaps a little too harshly considering she’s his queen. Anne flinches at the tone in his voice, struggling to speak. She sits back down again, fearful that she would have collapsed if she had stood a moment longer. She feels fragile and small, like she did when she was on her deathbed. 

 

Francis takes the chance to move towards her and kneel in front of her. 

 

There had been a time when the lines on Francis’s face had been due to laughter and joy; where he was one of her closest childhood companions, where his face while not entirely handsome, was still youthful. That time was no longer. 

 

“He needs you, my lady,” he implores, his eyes wide with desperation. “He calls out for you and his son. It is all he speaks of, even in his sleep.” 

 

“His grace—“ 

 

“Dickon is dying Annie!” 

 

No one has used that name in years. 

 

“For the love I know you bare him, for the love I know he bares you, please go to him. Please.” 

 

Anne is torn, stricken, to leave would mean many things. Warwick Castle is her home and somehow Anne knows deep down in her heart that if she were to leave now, the chances of her ever returning were very very slim. The life she could have had here would fall to pieces. She meets Veronique’s gaze fleetingly before she looks at Sir Robert. 

 

She can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

 

“Please, Annie.” 

 

A tear slips down her cheek as she stares at Francis. 

 

“Alright,” she agrees, her heart breaking slightly, “Alright.” 

 

— 

 

Anne leaves the next day, with Sir Robert and Veronique at her side. 

 

She hugs the children tightly, presses kisses to their heads and tries to ignore their tears as she goes. 

 

But strangely enough, it is her mother who Anne does not wish to leave the most. 

 

“You’ll be alright,” her mother whispers in her ear, while they are embracing. “You’ll come home.” 

 

But her voice lacks the conviction she had months ago and her dark eyes meet Anne’s for mere moments, as though it hurt too greatly to look at her for too long. 

 

As it turns out, Anne would return to court as a Queen after all. 

 

xii. 

 

Anne’s return to court is rushed. 

 

The instant she arrives in London, Francis guides her to Richard’s chambers. She offers half-hearted words of acknowledgment and thanks but even though she’s in a hurry, she notices how shocked they look at her return, how every glances at each other and whispers the instant her back is turned. 

 

Anne knows the way to Richard’s bedchambers like she knows the back of her own hand, but walking there feels like walking down the River Thames. They reach his outer rooms eventually and Anne stumbles at the sound of a cry behind his door. 

 

For a split second, she is frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. 

 

There are several _Your graces_ uttered in an attempt to snap her out of this spell, but Anne can’t—

 

“My lady,” Sir Robert murmurs, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

 

Anne smiles at him thankfully but then there’s another cry behind the door and— 

 

_Richard._

 

_Oh, Richard._

 

His tan skin was unnaturally pale, and even from the threshold Anne could see how it was covered in a thick layer of sweat. His hair, his beautiful curls that she used to adore dearly, were a mess and— 

 

Richard is dying. 

 

The room is thick will smell and Anne notices the dirty and used linen on the floor, the empty bowls and the closed windows and somehow, the sight of him in such pain springs her into action. 

 

“Open the windows now!” she commands, moving to his bedside. 

 

There is a moment of hesitation and Anne is somehow aware of the Doctor’s shock at her appearance. As though she were some kind of ghost. 

 

“Francis now!” 

 

Anne feels gratified when a cool breeze flutters through the air, letting some of the stench out. 

 

While Anne may hate him, may be so incredibly angry with him, she can not bare the idea of him dying before her. It was simply out of the question. Her nose wrinkles with disgust when she notices the state of his bedsheets, how they were stained with sick and sweat and suddenly she’s angry at them all. 

 

“What were you thinking?” she rambles, “Treating your King like this? Howard, get new bedsheets immediately, some additional blankets too. Sir Robert, grab some sleeping drafts and honeywater from the physicians store—“ She rambles on and on, listing out things for people do. Francis at some point appears with a bowl of steaming water and Anne burns her hand wringing out the cloth. She dabs his forehead gently and is painfully reminded of her boy, dead in his bed and feverish the months beforehand. 

 

His lips are so pale. 

 

There are people moving around her, doing her orders but Anne’s attention is solely on Richard. It aches to look at him, to be so close to him. To see him like this reminds her of how they had run to Edward’s side, how he had commanded their boy to live, and that in turn remind her of when she was ill and Richard had come to her on that fateful day and— 

 

Anne can barely bare it. 

 

It is then that she notices another presence in the doorway. 

 

A flash of long, golden locks in the corner of her eye. 

 

Anne turns her head to look at Elizabeth Rivers. 

 

The girl’s mouth opens like a fish at the sight of her, as though she can barely believe her eyes. Anne remembers a time where she envied the girl more than any other in the world, but now Anne feels nothing towards her. In truth, she feels rather numb, as though this were all a dream. 

 

“Anne,” Richard murmurs. 

 

She snaps her head to look at him, the Rivers girl instantly forgotten but Richard is lost in delirium, lost to the world. His eyes snap open and Anne is childishly relieved to find that they are still the same shade of grey. But they’re hundreds of miles away, dazed and Anne is yet again relieved to find that he has not fully realised that she’s here. 

 

Anne is not quite ready for that reunion. 

 

But it seems that God is oblivious to her prayers yet again, because his eyes grow more clear, his expression more alive as he blinks. Anne wonders momentarily if he thinks she is a ghost or a demon coming to lure him to hell— 

 

“You’re here,” he gasps, his voice a mere whisper. 

 

Anne lowers her hand from his forehead, her body tense. 

 

She doesn’t speak. 

 

“You’re home.” 

 

His face darkens then, his eyes filling with unmistakable anguish that seems to have plagued him. 

 

“Our boy,” he gasps, lost yet again to delirium. “Oh Anne, I’m so sorry! I have failed you both—“ 

 

“Shh,” she urges, pressing a finger to his lips. She can see a physician move to stop her, but someone gets in their way. 

 

“Rest Richard,” she soothes, dabbing his forehead again with her other hand. 

 

“Don’t leave me,” he begs, his face turning in her direction. “I need you. Don’t go away.” 

 

Anne’s heart breaks in her chest to see him in so much pain and part of her is angry that her defensives crumble so easily at the sight. 

 

“I won’t,” she promises, surprising herself. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

Richard relaxes at her words and Anne withdraws from his bedside when he falls asleep once more. 

 

Anne stumbles backwards and this time it is Francis who catches her. 

 

When Anne reaches the Queen’s chambers, she is surprised to find it exactly as she left it. Though Anne had taken most of her belongings with her, she was mindful to leave some of them behind, so as to appear to the court at least that she would return, so as not to arouse suspicion. 

 

It is exactly the same. 

 

Almost as if it were a shrine. 

 

“I never thought I’d be back here,” she admits to Veronique. 

 

Veronique smiles at her and it is bittersweet. 

 

Tears suddenly pierce Anne’s eyes as she opens her mouth to say something, anything to make it better.

 

It doesn’t work. 

 

xiii. 

 

It is after Anne breaks her fast the next morning that she is first disturbed. 

 

“Your grace!” One of the physicians stumbles into her solar, gasping, his eyes wide with terror— 

 

“The King—“ 

 

Anne is on her feet in an instant. 

 

People flash by as she hurries her way to Richard’s chamber and it is not until she sees Francis’s white face that she realises how serious this is. 

 

“No,” she says aloud, not caring if she sounds mad. “No.” 

 

She forces her way into his bedchamber, glaring at those who dare to protest or try and stop her. 

 

Anne feels ill at the sight of him and it takes every inch of strength she has to go to him, to grab a hold of his hand. 

 

“Richard,” she urges, holding onto to his hand tightly, “Wake up.” 

 

He does not stir. 

 

“You’re not allowed to die before me,” she says, “It isn’t allowed. I forbid it.” 

 

Still, he does not stir. 

 

Anne waits for him to wake, waits for his weak breathing to grow strong once more. It almost feels like how it was years ago, when Anne used to rise before Richard. Richard had never liked mornings, unlike Anne, and so it was a common habit of hers to watch him sleep, admiring how the serious lines on his face smoothened whilst he rested. 

 

And the memory makes her shudder. 

 

“You’re supposed to be King,” she says, her voice catching in her throat. “You’re supposed to have more children. You still have so many things to do on this Earth, Richard. So much. Our son can wait a few more years for one of us to join him.” 

 

_There is so much I want to say,_ she thinks, gazing at him. _So much I don’t know how to say. We’re strangers now, husband. So much has happened between us, so much. You can’t leave me like this. You can’t._

 

It is then that Anne comes to a single realisation: 

 

That she would endure Richard not loving her, endure him shaming her, endure whatever plan he had against Tudor if only he would open his eyes. Because while he may not love her, Anne had always loved him. 

 

It pains her to admit it, and perhaps if she were a better woman her pride would not grumble so deeply. 

 

“Please Richard,” she says, one final time. 

 

She places a hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath her fingers— 

 

Richard gasps.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Holy shit! This is done. Oh my God, I had so much fun writing this absolute rollercoaster of a story. I'm so glad you guys enjoyed it! Your feedback has meant so much to me. This chapter- the final one- is an absolute behemoth and is perhaps the longest chapter I have ever written in my life. Holy cow. It's like three in the morning and I should be asleep I just could not rest until this was done. Please review. It would mean so much if you did. Thanks for everything! I would like to write more Anne and Richard in the future, but this story kinda took everything out of me for the time being. Thanks again! 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073

i. 

 

Anne would like to say she knows what Richard says when he wakes. Or what happens the few days after that. 

 

But she doesn’t. 

 

Because the moment Richard opens his eyes, his chest heaving like he had just gone into battle, Anne faints. 

 

She isn’t quite sure who catches her, only that moments before her world goes entirely dark she hears another _thud_ on the floor, as though something had just fallen. She isn’t sure if that’s just her imagination, but either way, Anne loses herself to a dark, deep sleep. 

 

It hurts to open her eyes. 

 

Anne groans at the light coming in from the window, her eyes fluttering open. 

 

“My lady!” Veronique gasps, hurrying over to sit at her bedside. 

 

A cup of some substance is thrust in front of her face and Anne does not have the energy to question what it is and drinks it eagerly, wanting to get rid of the soreness in her throat. She wrinkles her nose at the taste, but swallows it all the same. 

 

“What happened?” she whispers, looking around her chambers. There are a few other of her former ladies there, the one’s that attended to her when she was last and then there is also Cecily Rivers. Her sister is no where to be seen. 

 

“You fainted,” Veronique tells her and it is then that Anne notices how worried she looks, how haggard. 

 

“How long. . .” she coughs, unable to finish her sentence. 

 

“You have been in and out of sleep for a week now.” 

 

That takes Anne by surprise. 

 

“A week?” she questions, astonished. 

 

“The physicians were not sure as to why you were like this,” Veronique tells her. 

 

Anne nods, careful not to move too much. 

 

“And the King?” 

 

Veronique smiles briefly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

 

“He is well. His fever broke the day of your collapse and he has since recovered his health. As a matter of fact, today was his return to court.” 

 

“Oh,” Anne utters, confusion swirling inside her, “That is good news to hear.” 

 

And it is. 

 

For the Kingdom. 

 

For Richard. 

 

But still, Anne is terrified. To see him. To talk to him. 

 

She remembers his words, remembers how he pleaded with her not to leave him, and she is more confused than ever before. 

 

ii. 

 

It’s the next day where Anne sees the Rivers girl again. 

 

She remembers how pale her face was, how her lovely face was contorted with fear and tiredness so that she looked older than her years. _Is she truly only a child?_ Anne wonders, before remembering that she herself was already married and widowed at her age. 

 

“Your grace.” 

 

Her words are a customary greeting for a Queen, but Anne senses a stiffness behind them, an apprehension. 

 

“Lady Elizabeth.” 

 

“It is a pleasure to see you once again, my lady.” 

 

_I wish I could say the same,_ Anne thinks maliciously, biting down on her tongue to keep the words from exiting her lips. 

 

“Thank you,” she replies cordially, and turns back at to look at her reflection in the mirror. Anne has never been beautiful. Not like Isabel. She has been called pretty, elegant, refined, but never beautiful. _Delicate,_ has always been a common word. Not like the Rivers girl, with her breathtaking beauty. A small pang of jealousy runs through her before Anne shakes her head, trying to rid herself of those thoughts. 

 

The girl looks as though she wishes to say something. Her lips part and her tongue darts out of her mouth as she tries to find the words to speak. Anne almost wishes that the girl was as venomous as her mother, maybe that would make it easier to hate her. To make Richard’s desire for the girl less understandable. 

 

_This girl can never be Queen of England._

 

The realisation dawns on her quietly, but Anne knows it is the truth. Regardless of the girl’s blood, of her beauty and grace, she can never be Richard’s Queen. 

 

But she could be Henry’s. 

 

“Your grace?” 

 

Anne starts at that, realising that she had been in a daydream. 

 

“May I fasten your gown?” 

 

Anne nods and mumbles her thanks, her mind lost in the clouds. 

 

They stand there quietly as the girl does her work and Anne wonders where the rest of her ladies have gone. 

 

“The King has begun the Christmastide celebrations,” the girl informs her and Anne worries that she’s spoken out loud. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

The girl finishes tightening her gown and curtsies after Anne offers her her thanks. 

 

“Court life was dull without your presence, your grace. You were dearly missed.” 

 

Anne nearly laughs.

 

“Anne.” 

 

Anne jumps out of her skin at the sound of Richard’s voice. She whirls around to look at him, her gaze solely on him as she forgets everyone else. Anything else. He has regained most of his colour and though he still looks slightly sickly, Anne has no doubt that he will fully regain his health by the end of the week. 

 

Anne doesn’t breathe. 

 

Doesn’t think. 

 

She is torn between relief and fear. 

 

Relief that he is alive. 

 

Fear of what he will say or do. 

 

Fear about what he can make her feel. 

 

Anne had long thought that her love for Richard had died over these past few months or at the very least that her hatred and anger with him far outweighed any love she had left for him. Anne was still disturbed by the agony she had felt at the sight of him in pain, the desperation that had clung to her every thought as she sat by his bedside. 

 

Yet, as his gaze flickers to the Rivers girl, Anne can feel that elation hollow, her relief dying as she remembers _everything._ Relief turns to numbness, and numbness transforms into indifference as she watches the girl flush under his gaze. 

 

_You fool,_ her mind whispers, as Anne’s hands curl into fists at her sides. _You stupid, weak fool!_

 

The girl leaves after a few moments and Anne can feel herself retreat back under her defences. 

 

Richard moves closer to her, his breathing echoing through her chambers. He looks as though he is about to reach for her hand or embrace her, and Anne can not bare that. Anne does not know what that will do to her. So, she does the only thing she can do. 

 

“You can’t marry her,” she blurts out, watching as he halts in his steps as though he were caught in quicksand. 

 

“What?” he incredulously replies, gaping at her in confusion. 

 

“You can’t marry her,” she repeats, making sure to hide her emotions. To not flinch under his disbelieving gaze. “I know I said that you could marry her after we divorced, but you can not. Your claim to the throne resides on her illegitimacy. It would be a big enough scandal to marry your niece but an illegitimate niece would be unthinkable. The Pope would never grant you dispensation.” 

 

“And this is what you have to say to me?” Richard asks, his voice strangely hollow. “After—after _everything,_ that is all you have to say?” 

 

Anne nearly shrugs. 

 

“What else is there to say?” 

 

A variety of emotions flutter across his face before it settles into a cool mask of stone. 

 

“Very well,” he responds and swiftly turns on his heel to stalk out of the room.

 

iii. 

 

“He can’t marry her,” she tells Sir Robert a few days later. 

 

Anne had been thrust into court chaos yet again, and had finally managed to escape for a few hours. She rode her horse alongside Sir Robert and Veronique, along with a few of her guards. 

 

They talk quietly amongst themselves as they settle their horses into a slow trot back towards the castle. 

 

“My lady, I don’t believe he ever had any intention of doing so,” he replies, his words carefully chosen. 

 

Anne scoffs, not unkindly, and retorts, “That’s very kind of you to say but we both know the truth. He can’t marry her. He simply can not. The scandal would be too great, and the Pope would never allow it.” 

 

“I agree,” he tells her, as they enter the castle gates. “But in all honesty my lady, I truly do not think that my lord ever entertained the idea seriously— or in any other capacity.” 

 

Anne is torn between feeling touched and wanting to smack him. 

 

Anne knew the truth as well as he, she did not know why he wished to deny it. Richard desired or loved his niece, that much was plain to everyone at court who had eyes and a brain. Anne stays silent as they approach the castle steps, and is too lost in her own thoughts to realise that everyone else has already begun to get off their horses. 

 

“My lady,” Sir Robert calls out, bringing her back to reality as he approaches her saddle. 

 

He grabs a hold of her waist and lifts her off her saddle and onto her feet. Anne links her arm between his, wanting to walk with him for a little while longer. It is cold outside, yes, the cool December air making her lungs burn, but Anne yearns for the freedom she had at Warwick Castle; misses it with a ferocity that makes her want to cry out at night. 

 

She even misses her walks with the man beside her. 

 

“We always talk of my plans,” she comments, as they walk down the narrow hallway that oversees the courtyard. “We never talk of what you want.” 

 

“My lady?” 

 

“You’ve listened to me ramble on about my problems for a half a year, Sir Robert. You have never once spoken of what you wish, what you desire.” 

 

“I wish for peace, my lady,” he tells her, after a few moments of silence. “I wish for England to know peace again. I wish for stability. I wish for my children, little that I see of them, to grow in a country that has not known recent bloodshed. Where the King is loved and the Queen respected. That is what I wish for.” 

 

“I see.” 

 

He stops when they reach the end of the hallway, disentangling their arms. 

 

He raises her hand and places a kiss on it. 

 

“My lady.” 

 

He bows and waits for her leave. 

 

Anne smiles at him briefly and nods, watching him as he walks away. She is both comforted and unsettled at his admission. _For a man in such great confidence of the two most powerful people in the realm,_ she thinks, _he is surprisingly unambitious._

 

_Mayhap’s that is a good thing,_ part of her whispers, _look where your ambition got you. And Richard._

 

Anne shakes her head slightly, annoyed with herself. Anne rarely allowed herself to think of those months where Richard was Lord Protector. Of the fear and uncertainty that plagued her every waking and non-waking moments. But Anne can not lie; she had wanted to be Queen the instant King Edward had died. Had known that it was right within her grasp if she could convince Richard to become King. And she had. Convinced him. 

 

Told him it was the right thing. 

 

It occurs to her in that moment that she had never even asked if he actually wanted to do so. 

 

“My lady?” 

 

Veronique’s voice is like a bucket of water being washed over her. 

 

“Yes?” 

 

Her voice is loud, too loud and Anne winces at it. 

 

“Are you alright?” 

 

It occurs to Anne now how it must have looked; the two of them strolling down the hallway until he abruptly left, leaving her to stare after him. Like a lovers quarrel. Anne pales at the thought and glances around her, hoping that no one else saw. 

 

She is out of luck. 

 

She catches Thomas Stanley observing her on the other side of the courtyard. 

 

_Damn._

 

“Quite alright, Veronique,” she tells her, sounding distracted even to her own ears. 

 

iv. 

 

Anne has always been wary of Thomas Stanley. 

 

Never trust a Stanley, her father used to say, and Anne is more inclined to listen to his words with every passing day. She is even more inclined to distrust to the man’s wife, especially after her little alliance with Buckingham. 

 

But nothing compares to her distrust of the man now. 

 

Anne knew that he had seen her and Sir Robert in the courtyard, and while _she_ knew that there was nothing romantic whatsoever between the two of them, Anne was well aware of how easily something like that could be twisted into something it wasn’t, especially by such a vile letcher. 

 

In God’s truth, Anne herself had blundered. She had not thought twice about how her relationship with Sir Robert could be interpreted by others. The one comfort she had was that Richard was likely to care very little about them and even less likely to believe them considering— 

 

_Considering what?_ her mind whispers at her. _Considering your ever so loving relationship with each other? You’ve barely spoken in months! It has been even longer since you have bedded one another. And Sir Robert? He has— He has been with you all this time. He even said he would rather stay with you than return to Richard, remember?_

 

Anne decides to consult Veronique on this matter, and asks her quite plainly if there are any rumours circulating around court about her and Sir Robert. Veronique looks down at her lap when she asks, and Anne is suddenly overwhelmingly glad that she thought to ask. 

 

“What is it?” she demands, holding onto the arm of her chair. “What is it?” 

 

“People have begun to wonder when Sir Robert went from being loyal to the crown to being loyal to the Queen,” Veronique responds hesitantly, biting onto her lower lip. 

 

Anne bristles. 

 

“How dare they?” she rages, nearly spitting with anger and indignation. “These gossipmongers! Vile and immoral—“ 

 

Veronique lets her ramble on for a while longer and it is only after Anne calms that she finally ventures to speak. 

 

“My lady, may I speak plainly?” 

 

Anne eyes her for a moment, before nodding wordlessly. 

 

“Did it ever occur to you that there may be some truth to the rumours?” 

 

Anne is about to protest when Veronique hurries on. 

 

“I know that you are married to the King,” she says, “And I know that you would never bed another while you were still married in the eyes of God. But that doesn’t mean that your heart feels the same.” 

 

“Whatever do you mean?” 

 

Veronique looks so unsure of herself Anne nearly thinks she will faint. 

 

“I think that perhaps you do feel for him—“ 

 

“Veronique—“ 

 

“You were hurt,” her friend interrupts. “And alone. The distance between you and the King was so far and it hurt even me to watch you two grow so estranged. You were grieving, my lady, did it never occur to you that you sought Sir Robert’s company in order to ease some of the pain of your husband’s absence? I know you believe that he loves the Rivers girl—“ 

 

“Enough!” Anne admonishes, rising to her feet abruptly. “Enough! I will not speak of this any longer!” 

 

Veronique flushes and nods, biting her lip all the while. 

 

When Anne presides over court next to Richard that evening, she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. They had both made an active effort to avoid each others company in private since they were forced to do so in public. He had since regained his health, and was splendidly dressed for the Christmastide celebrations that had begun in full swing the week before. The time they were forced to spend together in public was surprisingly —and thankfully— little, since Richard was always in council meetings. 

 

Anne wonders briefly as to whether or not he has received any news from his diplomat in Rome and resolves to question him about it later. They do not touch. They stay in their thrones and watch the court dance and laugh. A throb of pain forms in her heart as she remembers that Ned should be there. That this would be the first Christmas without her son since she lost him. _He looked so much like you,_ she wishes to tell Richard, _he was your splitting image._

 

If Richard feels her stare on him, he does not show it. 

 

Instead, he rises to his feet after another song or two and, sure enough, goes off to dance with the Lady Rivers. It no longer hurts Anne as it did before her leave from court. In fact, she has grown so used to it now that it is more surprising to her when he _doesn’t_ ask the girl to dance. She catches some of the women glancing at her sympathetically as her husband dances with that wretched girl and Anne could scream she feels so suffocated. So alone. 

 

But she smiles instead and drums her fingers on the arms of her throne. Her crown is heavy on her head and Anne can not wait until she is free of its weight. She shifts in her chair when she notices Sir Robert approaching her and Veronique’s words ring in her head. 

 

_Is it true?_ she thinks, observing his features carefully, _Do I feel for him in the way Veronique implied?_ She doesn’t think so. Anne does not have room in her heart for new romantic feelings. None at all. 

 

“Your grace,” Sir Robert greets, kissing her hand when she extends it to him. 

 

“Sir Robert,” she returns, careful to keep her face impassive. 

 

He looks as though he wishes to say something to her, but instead all he does is move to her side, close enough that she can see him out of the corner of her eye, but far enough that she would have to raise her voice in order to speak with him. Richard returns to her side at some point and it takes Anne a moment to realise that he’s talking to her. 

 

“The court will begin to exchange presents today,” he informs her, taking a sip from his wine cup. 

 

Anne merely nods in reply and tries desperately to keep her mask in place. 

 

She watches with feigned excitement and gratitude as several Lords, Ladies and others approach her and Richard, offering them gifts of fine wine, jewellery, decorative chests and so many other meaningless items that Anne loses track after the tenth lord. The words are ingrained in her memory so that she simply goes through the motions. _Thank you,_ she says, _you are very kind._ Or something to that effect. 

 

It’s not until some Knight approaches with his son that Anne feels her facade begin to falter. The boy is young, roughly seven years of age, with dark cropped hair and pale skin, with brown eyes the colour of oak. A small wounded sound escapes her throat at the sight of him. _Edward,_ she thinks, her heart throbbing, _Ned._ She breathes out shakily and tries her very best to blink back her tears. 

 

She nearly jumps out of her skin when Richard places his hand on top of her own. She snaps her head to the side so quickly she thinks she gets whiplash. They had not willingly touched each other in weeks, not since Richard had been ill. But his eyes are sympathetic, haunted by the same pain Anne feels and— 

 

“Your grace,” the boy says, bowing adorably. 

 

Anne can not stand the ache in her heart, and she suddenly misses Maggie, Teddy and Jack so terribly she wants to curl in a ball and cry. They leave shortly thereafter, and yet Richard does not move his hand. Not yet. 

 

“I feel ill,” Anne murmurs, feeling slightly nauseous. 

 

Richard squeezes her hand, though whether in comfort or as a reprimand Anne does not know. 

 

She rises to her feet, removing her hand from Richard’s and climbs down the small stairs that lead to her and Richard’s thrones. She feels weak and fragile, as though her bones are about to snap in half and just as she feels as though she is about to stumble, someone is there to support her. She knows who it is before she even looks at him. 

 

“Thank you, Sir Robert,” she tells him, glancing up to look into his eyes. 

 

_They’re incredibly blue,_ Anne thinks suddenly, her heart caught in her throat, _a beautiful blue._

 

Anne withdraws from him as though she was burned by his touch. 

 

When Veronique attends to her later that evening after she has dismissed the rest of her ladies, Anne does not know what to say. 

 

“I’m so confused,” she whispers, so quietly Veronique can barely hear her. 

 

“I think it possible that you are confusing gratitude with romance,” Veronique replies in french, raising a hand to Anne’s forehead. “You went through an unbearable loss, Anne. You still are. It is alright to feel confused.” 

 

Anne chuckles momentarily, though there is no genuine humour to it. 

 

“I miss him,” she says, her throat tightening. “I miss him so badly. The children eased the ache of his loss, helped me be a mother even though I don’t have a child anymore. But now. . . now who knows when I will see them again?” 

 

She falls asleep moments afterwards, thinking of her son and the reunion she nearly had with him in heaven. 

 

v. 

 

Anne finally goes to Richard the next day. 

 

It is early in the morning, in his solar and Anne worries for a brief moment that she will catch him with _her._ She hasn’t been here since his illness. Since he had asked her— 

 

_No._

 

_No,_ Anne thinks firmly, _nothing good will come thinking like this. It just makes this harder._

 

Much to her relief however, Richard is merely breaking his fast when she enters his solar— eggs and ham with a side of bread and oranges, his favourite— and he looks fleetingly startled to see her, before his features smoothen and his eyes grow guarded. 

 

“Richard,” she says, inwardly cringing at how awkward she sounds. She dismisses the servants and guards with a flick of her wrist, and is grateful when Richard does not question her on it. Anne is at a loss at what to say for a short time. 

 

She simply stands there, linking her fingers together in front of her and stares at him. 

 

“Have you heard back from the diplomat in Rome?” 

 

_So much for subtlety._

 

Richard observes her carefully. 

 

“No,” he replies slowly, taking another bite of his breakfast, “Not yet.” 

 

“Nothing?” she questions, taking a few more steps towards the desk so that she can lay her hands on it. “Nothing at all?” 

 

Even she can hear the traces of exasperation and disappointment in her tone. 

 

“Truly.” 

 

Anne nearly bristles at his tone. 

 

“Well,” she comments lightly, careful to keep her irritation out of her voice. “As long as we hear back soon.” 

 

(It’s later on that day that Anne realises Sir Robert has left court) 

 

— 

 

It takes several days for him to return. 

 

Anne is presiding over court with Richard, tiredness making her eyes droop as she observes the people around her. She perks up at the sight of Sir Robert approaching her and Richard, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. 

 

“Sir Robert,” Richard calls out, bringing the music to a sudden halt. “I trust your travels went well.” 

 

Sir Robert smiles at him cordially and nods. 

 

“Indeed they did your grace.” 

 

There is a moment of silence and just as Anne finds the words to speak, Sir Robert beats her to it. 

 

“May I present my presents to you, your grace’s.” He bows as he steps out of the way, revealing two servants behind him. They present Richard with some fancy spear that Richard delights at and some other gifts that Anne barely notices. 

 

She’s simply pleased that he’s returned. 

 

“My lady.” 

 

Sir Robert redirects his gaze attention to her after Richard has offered him his thanks. 

 

Anne spares a glance for the servants and frowns fleetingly when she sees that their arms are empty. The door to the great hall opens and Anne— 

 

“How?” she whispers, rising to her feet. 

 

The children look slightly nervous at all the attention on them, with Jack in particular looking pale with fright and unease. And yet, her heart leaps at the sight of them. The worries that have plagued her over the past few weeks fade in an instant as she stares at them, gobsmacked. The relief within her is crippling. Some part of her had feared that she would never see them again. 

 

“Lady Anne!” Jack’s face brightens at the sight of her, like the sun breaking through dark clouds and rushes over to her, momentarily forgetting all the lessons of decorum he has been taught. He crashes into her stomach so violently Anne nearly falls over, but she doesn’t care. Tears fill her eyes as she laughs, her heartbeat quickening when he hugs her tightly around the waist. Maggie and Teddy follow in Jack’s footsteps and soon enough Anne is crouching down so that she can better hug all of them. 

 

“Oh how I’ve missed you,” she says loudly, pressing kisses to each of their foreheads. 

 

It doesn’t feel real, having them in her presence again. It feels like a lifetime since she’s seen them, even though it’s only been a month or so since her departure from Warwick Castle. 

 

“Thank you,” she tells Sir Robert, rising to her feet when she finally manages to disentangle herself from the children. “Truly.” 

 

It’s only then that she remembers Richard. 

 

She turns around to look at him, holding onto Maggie and Jack’s hands in each hand with Teddy’s clutching at her waist. 

 

“Your grace,” the children all say simultaneously, curtsying appropriately. 

 

It’s a far cry from the warm, if slightly inappropriate, welcome they gave her. 

 

Anne is not expecting what she finds. 

 

Richard is looking at her with unmistakeable confusion in his grey eyes, as though he can not comprehend what just happened. Yet, there is noticeable anguish in his features, and Anne is sure that he is thinking of their Edward. A part of her suddenly sympathises with him. Anne had the children to balance the ache that Ned’s death had left on her heart, she had the opportunity to find peace, Richard had no such luxury. The anguish in his eyes vanishes as he meets her gaze, before his attention flickers to the children. He offers a brief, if slightly distracted smile, to Maggie and Teddy before the warmth in his face vanishes at the sight of Jack. 

 

Anne stiffens protectively, feeling this impulsive need to defend the boy, to defend his low rank. His gaze returns to her eyes and he tilts his head slightly, as though he is trying to answer a question only he knows to ask. 

 

He rises to his feet eventually and moves to stand in front of Jack. 

 

Anne can feel the boy tremble. 

 

“What is your name?” he asks Jack, his voice surprisingly gentle. 

 

“Jack, your grace,” he replies, and Anne feels a sliver of proudness at how steady his voice is. 

 

Richard offers him a small smile, before he looks up at her. Not for the first time, Anne can’t tell what he is thinking. Anne finds herself desperate to defend herself— eager to be excuse her actions under his accusing gaze. At least, she thinks it’s accusing. Anne wonders if he thinks that she’s trying to replace Ned in some way. She was clear with her favour for the boy— at least she had made it clear over the past few moments and had even gone so far as to have him become a companion to their niece and nephew, those of royal blood. 

 

“Welcome to court,” Richard tells him, though his stare never wavers. 

 

One of the children says something—Anne is not quite sure who— and the seriousness of his expression fades a little. 

 

“Thank you, Margaret,” he says, sitting back on his throne. 

 

Anne sends the girl a thankful look, noting to herself to have Maggie’s favourite breakfast brought to her for the next several days. _Smart girl,_ she thinks, _just like her mother._

 

Anne excuses herself from the festivities moments afterwards and walks with the children to the chambers they stayed in the last time they were at court. _Jack could share a bed with Teddy,_ she thinks, _it is surely big enough._ Memories flash through her mind of Ned and Teddy together, but Anne can not bare that. Not after seeing the look in Richard’s eyes when he looked at Jack— when he looked at _her._

 

Anne plants a kiss on the crown of Maggie’s head when they reach her chamber and watches as she departs into the chamber with her ladies. Teddy nearly starts to whimper at his sister’s disappearance, tiredness making him more emotional than usual. It takes a little while longer to get the boys to bed, and Anne sits by their bedside until they fall asleep. 

 

“Lady Anne?” Jack whispers, careful not to wake the sleeping Teddy. 

 

Anne looks at him in the dim candlelight, taking note of how small he is. It warms her heart to see him so comfortable, so warm, free from all those who would have harmed him. 

 

“Yes, Jack?” 

 

He fumbles for a moment, his pale cheeks flushing as he struggles—

 

“Why did the King look so sad to see me?” 

 

Anne does not know what to say. 

 

She tries to hide her surprise at the question— tries to hide her helplessness, but to no avail. 

 

“Why do you say that?” she settles on finally, deciding that it was the safest option. 

 

“I don’t mean to speak ill of the King,” he says, his eyes widening with fear. 

 

“You’re not. You’re with me,” she reassures him, placing a gentle hand on his chest. “What makes you say that?” 

 

“He has that same look in his eye that you used to,” he confesses quietly. “He looked as though I were taking someone’s place at the dinner table.” 

 

Her heart breaks in her chest at his words, but Anne resolves to not lose herself to grief. Not now. Not when he needs her so dearly. 

 

“The King does not know you like I do,” she tells him eventually. “He does not see you as I do. To him, you are a stranger who I am fond of. And—“ she hesitates for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. “And he misses our son. As do I.” 

 

She can’t possibly make him understand the ache— make him understand the loss they felt. The loss they still feel.

 

“I had the time to grieve Jack,” she whispers. “The King did not. A lot of children who he does not know remind him very painfully of our son, who is in heaven now.” 

 

“Is it the same for you?” 

 

Anne can not find it within herself to lie to him. 

 

“Sometimes,” she admits honestly, glancing over to ensure that Teddy is still sleeping. “I— _we_ both loved him very much.” 

 

Jack is quiet for a moment. 

 

“I’m sorry that he died,” he whispers, startling Anne with his tears. 

 

“Oh hush,” she replies, in agony. “You have nothing to be sorry for, you sweet boy.” 

 

“We’ll be able to go home, won’t we?” he enquires. 

 

“I hope so, Jack. I really, really do.” 

 

vi. 

 

Anne finds herself in the courtyard the next day. She’s bundled up in a series of warm furs due to the cold weather. Maggie and Teddy shiver by her side, but even though she had told them to return indoors with the rest of her ladies they had refused. 

 

Sir Robert was training Jack. He had wanted to show her all of the progress he had made over the past few weeks and Anne, well, Anne could not refuse him. 

 

She chuckles as she watches Jack swing his wooden sword proudly, how he looks over at her for approval. Sir Robert looks as though he’s trying to contain his amusement as well, as he spars with Jack. He’s holding back obviously, his blows weak and slow as Jack charges against him energetically. He looks younger, Sir Robert that is, when he’s like this. The lines on his face fade away and he looks decades younger. 

 

_I think that you’re confusing love with gratitude,_ Veronique had told her. 

 

But Anne has never fancied herself in love with Sir Robert. Never. Not once. She cares for him a great deal, with a tenderness that surprises even herself, but she does not love him. Not like that, anyway. The confusion within her ebbs as she reaches that conclusion, and relief makes her look up to the sky. She exhales loudly, before her attention is called to— 

 

“And I’m slain!” Sir Robert cries out, clutching at his stomach over dramatically. Maggie and Teddy giggle at his theatrics and even Anne is amused by the horrified expression on Jack’s face. It takes him a moment to realise that he’s jesting, and by then it is too late for him to retreat. Sir Robert scoops him up in his arms and Jack yells out, calling for help. 

 

Anne is giggling now, like she’s some kind of girl and not a woman grown. Not a Queen. Not a parent without a child. 

 

She is too absorbed in the joy around her to notice _him._

 

To feel his gaze on her. 

 

“Lady Anne!” Jack exclaims, thrashing around on Sir Robert’s shoulder, “Help me!” 

 

Anne shakes her head, and even though there is an ache in her heart for Ned, for her boy, she does not let that ruin this moment. Anne moves forward, sending Sir Robert a mindful look. 

 

“Sir Robert,” she says, her voice warm yet firm. “We must begin to return indoors.” 

 

He nods and places Jack back on the ground. The boy immediately flocks to her side, burying his face in her side. Anne laughs at the action, gently patting Teddy’s head at his upset expression, since Jack’s actions forced him to move away from her side. 

 

“Come on,” she says, “You all have been away from your lessons for too long.” 

 

She chuckles as they groan, but they do not otherwise complain as they make their way back to the castle. 

 

“You’re shivering Jack,” she admonishes, quickening her footsteps. They enter the castle soon after, and Anne orders for warm baths to be drawn for all of them. Jack and Teddy walk beside her, one clutching onto her side and the other clutching on to her other arm, and began to ramble on about how great soldiers they’re going to be. Sir Robert and Maggie walk close beside them, with Maggie telling him excitedly about some of the presents she received for Christmas and— 

 

Anne halts in her steps when she catches sight of Richard. 

 

He’s surrounded by some of his closest advisors, Stanley, Francis, Jack Howard, Rob Percy, but his gaze is focused intently on her. He’s standing close the window, the one that oversees the courtyard and Anne— 

 

He storms away before she can even open her mouth. 

 

vii. 

 

Anne knows the confrontation is coming. 

 

She waits for Richard for the rest of the afternoon, having told the children to return to their studies. After bathing, Anne found herself stitching amongst her ladies, casting a glance towards the door that led to her chambers every so often. Only Veronique was aware of the tension. Only she shared her anxiety. 

 

_Can they hear?_ Anne wonders, glancing at her ladies, _my heart is beating so fast._

 

The Rivers girl is here. 

 

_Why is she always around when I least want her?_ Anne thinks bitterly and she is about to dismiss her when— 

 

Richard storms into the room, his eyes blazed with fury. 

 

Her ladies let out a startled gasp, but Anne merely rises to her feet. She knew this was coming. She knew it. _You should have been smarter,_ she thinks, _London is not Warwick Castle. You’ve grown soft._

 

“Is it true?” Richard demands loudly, not even bothering to have the door shut behind him. “Tell me!” 

 

Anne sends Veronique a warning glance when she looks as though she is about to protest. _Don’t._

 

“Richard,” she says calmly, though her heart— Oh dear Lord her heart feels as though its about to fly out of her chest. Strangely enough, her attention is drawn to the Rivers girl, who looks as though she has seen a ghost. Anne is equally startled, truth to be told. She had never seen Richard like this, not even before and during George’s trial and subsequent execution. 

 

_The fool!_ Anne’s mind screams, when she sees the Rivers girl attempt to approach Richard, perhaps trying to calm him. Her other ladies have already begun to leave her chambers— only Veronique and Elizabeth Rivers linger. 

 

“Your grace,” the girl says softly, as though he were _her_ husband. “Richard, you mustn’t—“ 

 

“I am talking to my wife!” he snaps, as though she were some kind of nuisance. “Go!” 

 

The girl flees, her eyes filling with tears at the harshness in his tone. 

 

Anne is momentarily amused— but mostly alarmed. 

 

“Richard, what are you talking about?” she questions tiredly, her heart aching. 

 

“Do you love him?” Richard accuses, his grey eyes wide with some emotion that Anne can’t quite identify— jealousy, anger, fear— 

 

He doesn’t need to clarify who _him_ is. 

 

“No!” Anne exclaims. She is the one who starts to anger now. _The nerve of him,_ she thinks, glaring at him, _the audacity! After everything he has done! Damn him!_

 

Anne exhales loudly, trying to calm herself.

 

“No, I do not love him.” 

 

“You sure act like you do!” Richard sneers. 

 

Anne can not help but gape at him. Gone is the cool, collected man she knows so well. She’s never seen him so out of control of his emotions before. He’s always managed to keep a hold of his temper. He used to storm away after they had argued and only returned when he could keep a hold of himself. That restraint is non existent now. 

 

“Is that some kind of jest?” Anne asks in a slightly condescending tone. “After all _you’ve_ done over the past year!” 

 

Something like shame flickers in Richard’s eyes and he has the decency to look a little guilty. 

 

“You’ve been parading your niece around like she’s already your wife!” she hisses, and is so consumed by righteous rage she no longer cares for anything. “Over the past year, you have shamed me repeatedly! You ceased to come to my bed while openly dancing and caressing the Rivers girl— you openly favoured her over me!” 

 

She laughs bitterly and it is so broken and crazed that Anne would wince if she heard it from someone else. 

 

“Well, I’m sure Sir Robert has been more than happy to take my place!” 

 

“Oh dear Lord, Richard! Are you a child? Have you miraculously turned younger over the past few months? Sir Robert and i have had no romantic relations at all!” 

 

“How am I supposed to believe that?” 

 

“The same way I was supposed to believe that you were only using the Rivers girl to win your point with Tudor!” she retorts, watching with grim satisfaction as his face pales. 

 

They gaze at each other miserably, so bitter and incensed that she feels miles apart from him despite their close distance. But despite her anger, despite how cross she is with him, there is a part of her that aches at his stupidity. That hurts so badly because they’ve come to this. She exhales and moves across the room with her back to him. 

 

“I do not love Sir Robert,” she says finally, after the silence becomes unbearable. “I have never loved Sir Robert, or desired to marry him. When I asked for the divorce, it was not because I wanted to continue some secret love affair as you suspect. There is no other man, nor has there ever been.” 

 

She turns to look at him, her heart intolerably heavy. 

 

“The only man that I have ever loved or been with throughout the duration of our marriage— my whole life actually, is you. I have never strayed from our marriage vows. Never. Now can you honestly look me in the eye and say the same?” 

 

He doesn’t say anything. 

 

And while Anne knew he desired the Rivers girl, knew that he no longer loved her, the knowledge that he had acted upon it, that he had laid with her, hurt her more than she knew how to express. 

 

“I see,” she says, blinking back tears. 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

He moves now, so that he’s standing in front of her.

 

“I—I— didn’t— it didn’t—I was—“ 

 

Anne shakes her head, unable to look him in the eyes. 

 

“Please—“ 

 

“Get out,” she whispers. It pains her to speak. 

 

“No, Anne— please, you must listen, you must—“ 

 

“I mustn’t do anything,” she says, her hurt twisting into fury. She refuses to cry in front of him. “What do you wish to discuss Richard? Hmm? Did she please you? Did she make you feel young again? Did she make you feel like a King?” 

 

Her words are dripping with patronisation. 

 

Richard flinches at the onslaught of words. 

 

“Anne, stop this,” he pleads, trying to get closer to her. But Anne can not bare the thought of his touch. Her mind is running wild with thoughts of Richard and Elizabeth— together, kissing— Anne can not bare it. It makes her want to thump her hands against the wall and beat them bloody. 

 

“I understand that men have certain urges that need to be fulfilled,” she says, trying to cling to what remains of her dignity. “I know that. I know that in most situations, I must accept your infidelity. But I also believe that we made vows to take care of each other, in sickness or in health. And you —You did no such thing! While I lay ailing, you lusted after her! You probably bedded her while I was on my deathbed!” 

 

There is a flash of guilt in his eyes, another of crippling shame and Anne — 

 

“Oh,” she whispers, pain slamming into her once more. “It wasn’t when I was ill, was it?” 

 

He doesn’t say anything. 

 

“You were with her after our son’s funeral.” 

 

It isn’t a question. 

 

Anne turns away from him, unable to bare looking at him any more. 

 

She remembers that day so clearly. Remembers the pain— the unbearable, paralysing pain that caused her to crumble to the floor in front of her son’s funeral. She remembers how he had extended his hand out to her, asking her to join him in their grief. She had not found the strength to go— part of her had blamed him. He had not been able to get Ned to wake. And mostly— she blamed herself. She loathed herself. Something she had said in a moment of weakness had led to the murder of two little boys — and by default, her own son. 

 

But mostly, Anne remembers the look in his eyes. The expression on his face when she accused him of the murder of his nephews. 

 

_Anne, I need you._

 

But Anne had no longer believed him. 

 

A sob catches in her throat when she feels his hands on her shoulders. 

 

“I needed you,” he whispers, “And you didn’t want me. I did not lie with her, nor have I ever.” 

 

Anne does not respond. 

 

“Anne, I do not love her—“ 

 

She wrenches away from him. 

 

“Get out!” she yells, grabbing a pillow nearby and throwing it at him. “Get out!” 

 

Richard looks as though he wants to protest— but Anne will have none of it. 

 

“Get out! In God’s name Richard, I mean it!” 

 

She throws another pillow at him, even though it is treason to try to hurt the King of England, even for a Queen. 

 

“Get out!” she says, tears piercing her eyes. 

 

She stands there, heaving. 

 

There are no pillows left to throw at him. 

 

“Get her to leave,” she hisses, looking away from him. She will not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “If I have to see you day to day, I will not see her.” 

 

Anne does not see him nod, and yet somehow knows that he does so. 

 

She does not look at him when he leaves. 

 

viii. 

 

She avoids him. 

 

Like the plague. 

 

Richard seems to respect her wishes and leaves her be, offering her polite curtesy and nothing else. It hurts to be near him. To look at him. To breathe the same air as him. At least _she_ had left court to return to her mother’s estate in the country for a few days before the celebrations. Anne did not have to endure seeing her. In all honesty, Anne spends a great deal of time imagining ripping the girl’s hair out, or ruining that smug, beautiful face with her— 

 

Anne tries to avoid thinking of the girl for obvious reasons.

 

It doesn’t really work. 

 

But try as she might to stop, she also thinks of Richard’s words. 

 

She is not in love with Sir Robert. She never once plotted to wed him after Richard, but there is some small part of her that grudgingly accepts that there is some truth to his words. Maybe a part of her had somewhat expected to wed him after her and Richard’s divorce was finalised by the Pope. At the very least, Anne expected him to follow her wherever she went afterwards. 

 

That realisation does nothing to lessen her anger with him. 

 

Her frustration and hurt. 

 

Maybe there is a small part of her that does wish to spite him. 

 

Some part of her that wants to hurt him as badly as he wounded her. To make his mind run wild with fear and suspicion regarding her actions. So, on the third day of their quarrel, Anne decides to attend court. She has not seen Sir Robert in the since the day of the quarrel, and Anne immediately goes to him. She ignores Richard, who is sitting on his throne. The court is surprised to see her and a part of her winces at the expectant and curious expressions on their faces. No doubt they had heard of her fight with Richard. 

 

Even Sir Robert looks slightly concerned as she approaches him. His gaze flickers, undoubtedly to Richard, before settling firmly on her face. 

 

“It is good to see you, my lady,” he tells her, kissing her hand when she extends it to him. 

 

Her crown is heavy on her head, even as she smiles. 

 

“Likewise.” 

 

The tension in the room eases after everyone realises that there is not going to be some major confrontation. As though they had expected Richard to duel Sir Robert for her hand in the middle of the great hall. The Christmastide celebrations are well underway, with holly and tinsel sprinkled around the hall as the celebrations roar around them. 

 

Anne converses with Sir Robert, and laughs with delight when Maggie and Teddy go off to dance. Jack was already dancing with Veronique and— 

 

_Ned isn’t here._

 

The thought is a dagger in her heart. 

 

She struggles to keep the smile on her lips, not wanting to attract any attention to her duress. But Sir Robert— he knows. He even though she did not say anything. 

 

“My lady,” he says gently, offering her his hand like he did all of those months ago, when Richard offered his to Elizabeth Rivers, “Would you care to dance?” 

 

Anne’s heart aches even more at his words and yet, she can not find it within herself to refuse him. 

 

She places her hand in his, and lets him lead her to the dancers. And Anne nearly laughs when she realises which tune this is; it is the same Richard and _her_ danced to that very first night he started his vendetta against Tudor. 

 

_The irony,_ she thinks sardonically, placing her hands against Sir Robert’s as they move in a circle. Anne has not danced in a while. When she was a child, her and Izzy used to fervently practice with their dance masters in their attempts to become the perfect, elegant lady. Izzy had been more talented at it than she, but Anne had not been completely inept at dancing. She remembers this dance surprisingly well— maybe because it haunted her every thought for months after Richard and the Rivers girl— and therefore she manages to convey some of the grace and energy her dance master had taught her as a child. 

 

She is mindful of the crown on her head, wearing her down as they clasp their hands and move in a circle yet again. It takes a great deal of effort for her to not to look at Richard. The part of her that is still angry with him— which is larger than she cares to admit— that longs for him to hurt as she did. To have his mind run wild with jealousy and his heart grow cold with neglect. 

 

But there is a small part of her that is fearfully indifferent. Anne had only felt that familiar indifference when Margaret of Anjou had first heard of her son’s death. It had faded after a few moments, after Anne’s shock at the recent course of events had worn off, but it had frightened her all the same. There had been no compassion for her; no sympathy. Only an empty shell where her emotions used to be. That’s how a part of her felt. 

 

Of course, there was also a part of her that Anne had no wish to acknowledge. 

 

A part of her heart that still— 

 

“May I take over from here, Sir Robert?” Richard asks from behind her. 

 

Anne jumps at the sound of his voice but is just as quick to cover it. 

 

Something passes between the two men as they stare at each other. The music has long since stopped, and Anne can vaguely hear the whispers beginning to emerge, but she does not care. The look in Sir Robert’s eyes is not challenging but there is something distinctly cool to it nonetheless. He won’t go unless she says so. 

 

_People wonder when he went from being loyal to the throne to being loyal to the Queen._

 

“Of course,” Anne jumps in suddenly, her voice steadier than she feels. “I’m sure Sir Robert will not object.” 

 

Said man glances at her for a moment too long, then eventually nodding his consent. 

 

“Your grace,” he says, bowing before making his exit to the side of the room. 

 

It pains Anne to look at Richard. She can feel her anger and hurt shimmering beneath the surface, begging to break free. But Anne will not give her enemies the satisfaction of seeing her lose her cool. She will not. She is the Kingmaker’s daughter for God’s sake. She can keep a hold of her emotions if need be. 

 

He offers her his arm after a few moments and Anne does not hesitate in taking it. 

 

The couples part and allow them to take the centre of the room. Anne can feel their gazes like a knife in the back of her skull. But her attention is solely on Richard. The musicians begin to play the instant they set foot in the centre, and Anne knows this tune. The dance is very intimate, too intimate really, considering the state of relations between her and Richard. Her heart clenches uncomfortably at how close he is to her, how his hands drift to her waist and lift her up, before setting her back down again. But Anne will not make a scene, will not slap him across the face as she so desperately desires. 

 

So Anne merely tries to separate herself from the situation. Tries to drift out of her body so that she feels numb. But Anne can not. Can not ignore the gentle warmth of his hands. How soft they are. It had been one of her favourites thing about him, besides his dark curls. She had loved holding onto it, pressing a kiss to it, feeling his hands stroke through her long curls or rub her neck was one of her favourite feelings in the world. And, after they had fallen apart, it had been one of the things she had missed most. 

 

The assurance. 

 

The certainty. 

 

_My Richard,_ she thinks fleetingly, her heart lodging in her throat as she stares into his heart. _What have we done to each other?_

 

The music stops with surprising suddenness, signalling the dance’s end. 

 

Anne looks around the room, forcing a smile onto her lips as everyone begins to clap politely. 

 

She does not look at Richard. 

 

_None of it was real,_ she reminds herself, feeling strangely faint. _He never loved you._

 

Anne can barely last an hour longer after that. She sits on her throne and does not look at Richard. Does not even acknowledge his precedes. She knows that he’s looking at her. She knows it like she knows how to breathe. She can only picture _them_ together. Kissing. Touching. Him loving _her_ and not Anne. 

 

_As long as I have you, and my own honour._

 

The memory comes suddenly and it is most unwelcome. She recalls the tenderness in his eyes as he had said, remember how she thought that there was no possible way his love was false, no way that she could ever be this happy. 

 

_I can’t do this,_ Anne thinks, raising a hand to her throat. _I can not._

 

She rises to her feet without prompt and does not spare Richard a glance before exiting the great hall. She does not care if the court is alight with gossip, she does not care about any of it. All she desires is to leave here. To get the divorce and be done with it. 

 

The instant she reaches her bedchambers she yanks the crown off her head and clumsily places it on a table nearby. The air feels stifling and Anne feels unnaturally warm, as though her room were on fire. Maybe it was the sudden reminder of Ned’s loss, or the heartache she had endured over the past few days coming up with her that caused her to be so emotional. Anne is not quite sure. 

 

She climbs onto her bed and curls up on it. The skirts of her blue gown make it difficult for her to manoeuvre, but Anne manages to make it to her pillows and reach for the doublet that she kept under her pillows ever since Ned died. It had been his favourite one. A dark shade of blue that had complimented his eyes the same way it did Richard’s. Anne had gotten into the practice when she was at Warwick Castle. On her bad days— of which there had been many— she would curl up on her bed for God knows how long, burying her face in that doublet as she breathed in one of the few things that remained of her boy. 

 

Anne does the same thing now. She clutches onto the fine fabric so tightly one could think she would rip it. But already, the strength is fading from her, as if a spell had been cast upon her to make her lose her energy. Her awareness. Anne falls asleep clutching onto her son’s doublet, wishing only for the peace that sleep could bring her. 

 

ix. 

 

“Anne?” 

 

Veronique’s voice is soft and gentle, as it always is on days like this. 

 

Anne does not answer. 

 

She had been silent as Veronique had taken off her gown from the night before, leaving her only in her white shift. Anne had not even risen to help her and how Veronique managed to do it, she does not quite know. Anne buries her face under the covers, making sure to keep the doublet close to her chest. 

 

She does not answer. 

 

Never on days like this. 

 

She hears Veronique sigh, somewhere behind her but soon enough Anne can hear her footfalls across the room, and the door shortly after. 

 

Anne has no comprehension of time on days like these. 

 

She is not quite sure what happens to her, exactly. After Anne had returned to Warwick Castle, her grief had become more manageable. She had busied herself with the children and the castle grounds. Had busied herself with all different kinds of things to distract her from her grief. To help her heal in some ways too. She had gone to mass and visited Ned’s chambers and talked with Priests a great deal and read a lot of scriptures. On many days, she could almost forget  that the gaping hole in her heart was there. But then something would happen overnight. 

 

Anne would go to bed, and then in the morning she could not bring herself to get up. 

 

On the first day it happened, Veronique had begged her. Had called the physician to examine her, along with her mother. But it had been no use. Anne could not bring herself to rise, to speak, to eat. Could not feel anything. It was as if all the pain she had experienced in her life— Izzy, her father, her marriage to Edward of Lancaster, George, Elizabeth Woodville, Margaret of Anjou, Ned’s death, Richard’s infidelity— had finally caught up to her. Anne had never really had the time to grieve. To fully cope with the losses around her. She always had to be aware of her surroundings, wary of those around her. Even during her first years at Warwick Castle, as Richard’s wife, Anne had been busy being the Duchess of Gloucester, and then with Ned’s birth. . . 

 

It only lasted for one day. 

 

The next morning, Anne would wake and feel fine. 

 

Completely better. 

 

She would never talk about it with anyone, had never found the right words to explain what happened to her. 

 

Anne suspects she never will. 

 

This had not happened since August. 

 

She shuts her eyes and tries to block out the world around her. She succeeds, mostly, until she becomes aware of Veronique whispering to someone by the door. 

 

“This happens sometimes,” she says to whoever is with her. “I don’t know what happens exactly. She’s fine one day and then the next—“ Her voice hitches, as though she’s struggling against tears. “I can never reach her on days like this— neither can her mother. We always thought Maggie, Teddy or even Jack might be able to, but we never wanted to risk it. And Anne would never want them to see her like this. She’s so strong for them. She’s so strong for all of us.” 

 

There’s a moment of silence, as though something is being passed between them. Whether it be a look or an understanding, Anne does not know. 

 

“But maybe you can reach her. If anyone can, it’s you.” 

 

Something within her grows cold at the sigh that comes from her companion. 

 

_Richard._

 

Anne shifts a little—very discreetly— so that the doublet is closer to her. 

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath as Richard recognises— 

 

“Is that—“ 

 

“She sleeps with it under her pillow every night.” 

 

Silence. 

 

“Please try, your grace. She can’t stay like this— she can’t keep on going like this.” 

 

“I don’t think I can.” 

 

Richard’s tone is vulnerable— the most open she has heard it in a long time. 

 

“You have before,” is all Veronique replies, and Anne _knows_ that they are referring to something that Anne is not privy to, even though they are talking in regards to herself. Richard sighs once more, and Anne guesses that he most give Veronique some sign of consent because she hears her leave the room, so that it is now only her and Richard. 

 

Anne keeps her eyes firmly closed and clenches her fists under the pillow as he approaches the bed. He’s facing her back now. Anne can hear him pause as he reaches her bedside, as though contemplating whether or not this was a good idea, before finally exhaling loudly. She hears him take off his boots and resists the urge to flinch at the soft _pat_ they make on the floor. 

 

Anne is mostly on the right side of the bed, so there is plenty of room for Richard as he climbs onto it. The mattress dips under his weight and Anne is struck by how used to it she still is. And then she remembers that there were some nights when she was ill that he stayed with her. She remembers waking up from nightmares or from sudden coughing fits and see Richard by her bedside, wide eyed with panic. When she woke in the morning, he was nowhere to be found. 

 

_Perhaps it was not all a dream,_ she admits. 

 

But Anne is careful to keep her face smooth and her eyes firmly closed. To him, she must remain asleep. 

 

“I know that you’re awake Anne,” Richard says gently. “But you do not have to talk to me if you do not want to.” 

 

Anne does not move a muscle. 

 

Richard sighs gently but with a sense of resignation, as though he had expected nothing different. 

 

He’s so close to her now. 

 

Anne can feel the warmth of his body, even through the covers. 

 

“I’ll talk if you can not,” he says. “I know that you have every right to hate me. I hate myself for all that I have done over these past few years.” 

 

He laughs suddenly, but there is no warmth to it. Only bitterness combined with surprise. 

 

“Has it only been nigh on two years since we were crowned?” he asks, as though he expects her to answer. “It feels like a thousand.” 

 

There’s a moment of silence before he continues. 

 

“I don’t know where everything went wrong,” he confesses, his voice small. “Everything was going so well. Ned was to be declared Prince of Wales, Parliament was convening for the first time, we had each other. We were never alone. I always used to disbelieve my brother when he said that it was a lonely thing to wear the crown. I never disbelieved him more after we were crowned. I had you by my side. What had I to fear of being alone?” 

 

He chuckles yet again, even more cynical than the last. 

 

“And to think that I am responsible for most of the distance between us. I neglected you, my love. Buckingham turned and Lord Stanley was unreadable and my nephews disappeared and I lost sight of you, somehow. We lost sight of each other. And when I thought you believed the rumours that I had killed my nephews. . . I do not think I have been so angry or hurt in my life. It was one thing for the commoners to believe it or some Lord, but you? The person I loved most in this world? I could not bare it.” 

 

“And then came Tudor.” 

 

His voice darkens as he remembers. 

 

“And my niece. I’m not quite sure as to how I came up with the idea. In all truth, I’m not sure how I managed to convince myself to go through with it. It was one thing to take the throne away from my brother’s son because of his illegitimacy, and quite another to convince his daughter that I loved her. That I desired her.” 

 

There’s a pause as he struggles to find the right words. 

 

“Maybe it was because we had grown so far from each other. And I must admit, God forgive me, that I was angry with you. For believing me to be capable of slaughtering my own nephews. I _knew_ that we had grown apart. I knew that, somewhere, deep down. But I lost sight of what mattered. I had lost so much to the crown. I had lost my brother, my honour, and then, even you.” 

 

He shifts closer and Anne fears that he’s about to touch her, but he does not. 

 

“I can’t say that there wasn’t a part of me that enjoyed her company, Anne. That would be a lie and I have no desire to lie to you. She was- is— young and innocent and everything that we no longer were. And she reminded me of my brother, whom I had lost but never gotten the chance to grieve for. It was so easy, Anne. Too easy. By the time I realised that you genuinely believed that I loved her, that I desired her— I do not quite know how to explain it. The idea seemed preposterous to me. Laughable, almost. I convinced myself that when I won the battle against Tudor— that when everyone came to my side, it would all be worth it. That I would have a lifetime to make it up to you.” 

 

“Admittedly, I was just being a coward. I did not want to acknowledge how low I had fallen. How estranged we had become. I’m so sorry for everything, Anne. I am. So much.” 

 

He inhales sharply. 

 

“And then Ned died. Our boy. Our precious boy. I thought, somehow, that his death would reunite us. That we could comfort each other and forget all the harm we had done to each other. I — I was a fool. I can’t excuse my allowing the Rivers girl to come to me at his funeral. All that I can say is that the only person I truly wanted by my side was you. But I did not have the strength to go to you. And then that night, in your chambers. . . I needed you so much. It had been so long since I had held you, since I had told you I loved you. Since we held each other.” 

 

A small sound escapes his throat. 

 

“And then you spurned me. Accused me of killing the boys. Accused me of being responsible for Ned’s death and I— I lost myself even more. I kissed her that night. I needed you, and the knowledge that you no longer wanted me and that it was my fault was more than I knew how to handle. There is no excuse that I can give for it. None at all. But that is the truth. When you got ill, I nearly lost my mind. I watched over you whilst you slept because I did not have the courage to look you in the eye. And then that day, when the eclipse came. . . I think you stopped breathing. I recall calling out your name, once— maybe twice and you did not answer. Your chest ceased to rise.” 

 

“I think I went mad,” he confesses quietly. “I remember yelling your name. Cursing God and demanding that he bring  you back. That I was the King of England and he could not take you from me. Not you. Never you. I can not survive that. I can never survive your loss, Anne. You are my heart. You always have been. And when you woke. . . I could not believe it. I remember hurrying to your side, you were screaming. So loud. I thought you were in pain. I had to be given a sleeping draft, I was so besides myself. I threatened to hang the physicians if they could not get you to calm down.” 

 

There’s a beat before he continues. 

 

“When you asked for the divorce I convinced myself that you did not mean it. I could not allow myself to truly comprehend the idea that you no longer desired to be my wife. That you hated me. So, I blamed it on grief and tiredness. On the loss of our son. Mainly, I think, I did not wish to acknowledge just how distant we had grown, and how much of that distance was my own fault.” 

 

“And then when you left. . . Elizabeth—“ 

 

Anne inhales sharply, loud enough so that he can hear. 

 

He stops speaking instantly and stares at her; she can feel his gaze boring into the side of her face even though she is not looking at him. Anne does not want to hear that name from his lips. She can not stand it. 

 

“Alright,” is all he says. “We can continue when you are ready.” 

 

Anne’s body relaxes a little. 

 

She still does not speak. 

 

“Anne,” Richard says, moving even closer so that she can feel his breath on her neck. “I —I lo—“ 

 

He stops, as though he knows now is not the right time or place. He sighs once more, and Anne almost expects him to leave. Expects him to stalk out of the room and leave her in peace. 

 

But her husband surprises her yet again. 

 

He moves so that his chest his pressed firmly against her back and places his left arm over her waist. His hold is loose, so that she can push it off of her body if she so wishes. Anne is taken aback by the movement. Part of her wishes to shove it off her body and another— 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Richard says firmly. “I can get off the bed and sit by your side, but I am not leaving you. Not again.” 

 

They stay like that for a while. 

 

It may even have been hours. 

 

Anne is not quite sure. 

 

Richard does not seem to mind. He shifts behind her once or twice in order to get more comfortable, but his arm does not move from her waist. Not once. His breathing steadies as though he were about to fall asleep. And Anne is comforted by the sensation somehow. It loosens her nerves, makes her melt more comfortably into the pillows. 

 

Anne glances down at the doublet under the covers, the one tucked against her bosom and her heart throbs as she remembers Richard’s voice when he recognised it. How broken it had sounded. 

 

The day is a bad one. 

 

Anne does not talk or speak, does not eat anything whatsoever but she does one thing out of the ordinary on days such as these. She reaches for Richard’s hand, which due to his arm being on her waist, is close to her chest, and links their hands together. She brings it up to her chest and even though Richard’s body stiffens with surprise, he says nothing. All he does is hold her. 

 

They fall asleep eventually, their hearts beating to the same rhythm for the first time in months. 

 

x. 

 

Richard does not wake when she does. 

 

Anne manages to disentangle herself from his arms and sit upright. Her stomach grumbles loudly, but Anne pays it no head. She merely gazes at Richard’s sleeping form. _He looks so young like this,_ she thinks, observing how the stress lines on his forehead have smoothened as he rests. _At least that has not changed._ Something warm begins to melt in her chest as she looks at him. Something she hasn’t felt for him in a long time. 

 

But Anne, for whatever reason, feels restless. 

 

She can not stay here and wait for him. 

 

So Anne gingerly climbs out of bed, so as not to wake him.

 

Shortly thereafter, Anne finds herself visiting her son.

 

She isn’t sure why exactly, but she kneels in front of his tomb, clutching onto her rosary. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t even speak, really. She simply kneels there and prays. 

 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

 

Richard’s voice cuts through her like a dagger, yet Anne does not move. Does not even show any sign that she notices his presence. His sigh is loud and echoes through the chapel. 

 

“This is our first Christmas without him.” 

 

Anne’s eyes flutter open. 

 

“It was always his favourite celebration.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

Richard kneels beside her, though he does not look at her. 

 

“I miss him.” 

 

Anne turns to look at him fully now, her heart crying out, desperate to talk to him after so long of their boy. Their precious boy.  Because while Veronique may try, and her mother may sympathise, it is only Richard who she has ever wished to discuss her boy with. For he is the only one who knew their boy, who loved him as much as she. 

 

“Me too,” she replies, her voice shaky. 

 

“I should have spent more time with him. After I became King, I didn’t spend as much time with him as I should have. I didn’t—“ his mouth twists, as though he were trying not to sob. “I tried to wake him up,” he tells her, his gaze low. “I tried so hard.” 

 

“Richard,” she whispers and while she is tempted to lift a hand to his face, she doesn’t. She turns to look ahead, and she confesses something that’s been buried inside her ever since her illness. “I would have given anything for it to have been me. I would— I would give anything for him to be alive—“ 

 

“Anne,” Richard says, and then they are both weeping and clutching onto each other, as if all the suffering they’ve endured in their lifetime has finally caught up to them both and reunited them. 

 

— 

 

They talk. 

 

They both have duties they need to attend to. Richard is busy with the war with Tudor and ensuring peace in the realm, and Anne is busy with the children and preceding over court when Richard is not able to do so because of his council meetings. 

 

But when they have the time for it, they talk. 

 

The scars that Ned’s death had left on them both had been torn open by Richard’s admission at his tomb, and the wound is delicate and painful. They try to heal each other with words. There is still love lost between them; there is still anger and distance and jealousy. They are not as reunited as they once were. 

 

But they are reunited in the loss of their son. 

 

They spend that time talking about him.

 

“He had all of your grace,” Richard tells her one night, shortly after the celebrations for the New Year have ended.  

 

Anne pauses as she looks at him, dropping her knight on the chess board. The fire roars beside them as they play, but Anne takes no notice of it. 

 

“I mostly thought he had your look,” she admits quietly, a small, reminiscent smile forming on her lips. 

 

Richard shakes his head gently. 

 

“He had your nose,” he says softly, “And your smile.” 

 

“I mostly think that is wishful thinking,” she muses, glancing down at the board. “He was all York, our boy. The splitting image of his father.” 

 

There is a small pang of sadness that echoes in both of them. 

 

But it isn’t only for Ned this time; it is for the children that they both yearned to have but did not get. It is for their poor, stillborn Cecily, who Anne birthed prematurely. 

 

Richard reaches for hand suddenly, and though Anne is startled and still wary of his touch, she does not pull away. 

 

“Anne,” he speaks gently, as though her name were something delicate. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it gently. Anne can feel some of the coldness in her heart thaw, but though Anne is glad to be able to speak with him of Ned, she can not bring herself to talk of the other issues that have plagued them. 

 

Yet still, Anne lets him kiss her hand. 

 

“I meant what I said, Anne. You are my heart. My love — my true and abiding love is for you. Imperfect as it is. It is for you.” He moves out of his chair and moves around the table so that he is kneeling at her side. “I love—“ 

 

“Don’t say it,” Anne interrupts, closing her eyes eyes. “I can not bare it.” 

 

“But why?” he questions softly, raising a hand to her cheek. His hand is warm and unbearably soft, and it takes everything in her not to melt against it. Anne can not bring herself to answer. Richard rises slowly and leans in closer as he presses a kiss to her shoulder, her collarbone, the side of her neck. 

 

“My love,” he whispers, kissing her chin. 

 

A tear slips down her cheek at his affection. 

 

“Because then I’ll want to stay,” she whispers, opening her eyes. “And I can not do that.” 

 

Confusion swirls in his grey orbs. 

 

“Where would you be going?” he asks, moving back. 

 

Anne’s heart cries out at the loss of his touch but she holds her ground despite it. 

 

“I am barren, Richard,” she says plainly, making sure to keep her tone even. “I can not give you an heir.” 

 

“I do not care for that,” he replies adamantly, his eyes growing wide. 

 

“You should.” 

 

Richard scoffs at her words, tenderness slowly morphing into anger. 

 

“I made you a King, Richard. Do not waste it on something as meager as fondness.” 

 

“You are my wife,” he snaps. 

 

“For the past few months, that meant very little to you.” 

 

“You know why I did that — I explained everything—“ 

 

“That does not change the fact that it happened,” she replies swiftly, observing him carefully. A part of her heart aches to cause him pain, to ruin the peace that has come between them over the past few weeks. But Anne knows that she speaks the truth, she could no longer be Richard’s bride. Before, it had been due to anger and hurt, divorce had been a convenient reason for her to no longer be by his side. But now— 

 

Anne shakes her head. 

 

“You are not only to blame for the distance that formed between us,” she says finally. “I used your vulnerability to become Queen. I practically forced the Kingship upon you so that I could finally be what my father always wanted: Queen of England. For that, I am sorry as well.” 

 

She does not mention her own guilt regarding his nephews. 

 

“I can not lose you,” Richard tells her, shaking his head. “I won’t.” 

 

Anne smiles sadly. 

 

“I rather think it is too late for that.” 

 

xi. 

 

They do not speak of that occasion after it happens. The next day, Richard pretends as though it did not even occur. Anne wonders momentarily as to why he does that, before finally deciding that it did not matter. But there are small parts of her that continue to question her actions. 

 

_You fool,_ some part of her hisses, _you stupid fool. You could stay here, with him. Be as you once were—_

 

Anne hardly believes that they could ever fully regain the trust they had between them, the love that existed and the partnership they had. 

 

_Maybe you do this because you do not believe he truly loves you._

 

That thought had more truth to it than she cared to admit. 

 

That Richard grieved for their son, she had not doubt. That he was sorry to have caused her pain, Anne believes that as well. But that he did not love the Rivers girl? Anne is less sure. 

 

But she does not have the time to find out. 

 

On tenth of January, the diplomat returns from Rome. 

 

Anne is sitting on her throne beside Richard, presiding over the court when she catches sight of the diplomat walking down the great hall. At first, she overlooks him, thinking that it is one of Richard’s many spies on Tudor but it is when she sees Richard’s face tighten that she recognises his importance. 

 

The man does not say anything of his mission when one of Richard’s councillors announces his return to court and for that Anne is grateful. She feels nauseous as she looks at him, stunned into numbness. She catches Sir Robert and Veronique looking at her concernedly and she smiles at them faintly, though in reality Anne is— 

 

_You hypocrite,_ her mind whispers harshly, _you wanted this._

 

Anne barely survives the remaining court session and immediately returns to her chambers when Richard leaves with the diplomat. 

 

Veronique is by her side when she reaches her rooms, her hand at Anne’s elbow. 

 

“My lady,” she says softly, as the rest of her ladies leave the room. “Are you alright?” 

 

“I’m fine,” Anne replies, forcing cheer into her voice as she attempts to smile at her reasuringly. 

 

Veronique does not look convinced. 

 

“My lady.” Her voice is full of sympathy as she hugs Anne tightly. 

 

“I’m fine,” Anne repeats, her voice breaking as she hugs Veronique back. “I’m fine.” 

 

“It’s alright,” Veronique tells her, “We will be allowed to go home soon. You, me, Sir Robert and the children. We can go back to Warwick Castle.” 

 

“I know,” Anne replies, pulling back when she manages to collect herself. She smiles at Veronique warily, exhaling as she straightens her spine. “That’s it, then.” 

 

They sit by the fire, watching the flames engulf the wood. They do not speak. There are no words that can convey their current emotions. Anne had wanted this half a year. She had desired this so strongly. Her freedom. Her escape from court and her ruined marriage. Anne doubts that she would be joyous even if she had received the news while she was at Warwick Castle. 

 

She had taken a vow to be Richard’s wife until the end of her days in front of God, after all. 

 

That was something that Anne took seriously. But Richard’s duty to the crown was far more important. He needed to stabilise England, to get more allies so that no one could dispute his rule. Anne would not let him throw it all away and have that wretched Tudor boy take it all. Never. 

 

Not on her watch. 

 

By the time night falls, Anne begin to feels bad for Veronique. 

 

“Go eat,” she instructs her friend, “You must be hungry.” 

 

“Your grace, I am fine —“ 

 

“You are a horrible liar,” Anne interrupts, not unkindly. “Leave me. I will be fine.” 

 

It takes several other moments for Veronique to finally agree and other few reassurances to actually get her to leave. Anne breathes in the silence, leaning back into her chair. 

 

When the door opens shortly after Veronique leaves, Anne rolls her eyes at her friend’s stubbornness. 

 

“Veronique, I am fine, I assure. . .” 

 

Her words die at the sight of Richard. 

 

“The Pope is willing to grant us the divorce,” Richard blurts out. 

 

Anne resists the urge to real back against the weight of his words. 

 

“Oh,” is all she says. “I suppose we will have to begin finalising an agreement we are both comfortable with. We must ensure that the divorce is deemed amicable by everyone, so as to prevent people from flocking to Tudor’s side on account of your supposed cruelty towards me.” 

 

“Is that what concerns you?” Richard asks. “That people will think ill of me?” 

 

Anne frowns. 

 

“Of course,” she answers, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. She shakes her head quickly and continues on. “You must make sure that your next bride is not too controversial. A French princess is out of the question and a Spanish princess might increase tension with France. Perhaps Joanna of Portugal? Or even an English woman? But you married me, so that may complicate things—“ 

 

“Anne!” Richard exclaims, cutting her off. 

 

Anne peers up at him confusedly, slightly taken aback by his anger. She had hoped that he made his peace with this after their previous argument. 

 

“Richard,” she says pleadingly, “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.” 

 

“Is it now?” he questions, a hint of anger in his voice. “You sure don’t seem bothered by any of this.” 

 

“Of course I am!” she shoots back. “But this is necessary—“ 

 

“No it isn’t!” 

 

Richard moves towards her, kneels in front of her and grasps a hold of her hands so that she can’t look away. 

 

“I have heirs,” he says urgently. “I have John de la Pole and our Teddy to take the throne if I die—“ 

 

“Richard, no—“ 

 

“Anne, I need you.” 

 

He presses fervent kisses to her hands. 

 

“Please don’t do this. I can’t lose you. I can not.” 

 

They argue for hours on end. Richard pleads with her; begs her, down on his knees. But Anne does not relent. She can not. Not now. 

 

“Unless you no longer love me,” Richard says suddenly, his face growing pale. 

 

Anne nearly laughs at him. 

 

“Love you?” she questions, rising to her feet. “Of course I—“ She shakes her head violently, unable to leave how stupid he can be. 

 

“For someone so intelligent your foolishness astounds me. If I did not love you, I would not have cared about your conduct with the Lady Rivers. It would not break my heart to know that you did not love me. That perhaps you never did.” 

 

“But I do!” he yells, throwing his hands up in the air. “So I’m not sure why we are having this conversation!”

 

Anne opens her mouth to speak but Richard does not let her say anything. 

 

“You’re not leaving,” he tells her suddenly, his face tightening as a mask of ice settles over his face. 

 

Anne is gobsmacked. 

 

“You can not force me to stay here!” she exclaims. 

 

“Until you come to your senses—“ 

 

“Richard,” she says, walking over so that she’s at his side. “Don’t do this,” she pleads, placing a hand on his wrist. “Don’t shut me out. Don’t alienate me. You’re doing the very thing that will cause you ill.” 

 

“You leaving me causes me ill.” 

 

“You are a King,” Anne snaps, growing irritated with him. “Act like one!” 

 

He looks as though she had slapped him. 

 

“Believe it or not, Richard, I do not enjoy causing you pain. I am not overjoyed about what we have to do, but I know that we must do it because it is our duty as England’s rulers.  You need an heir, Richard. You need children. And I—I can’t give that to you. But I can give you this. I can give you another chance.” 

 

Anne’s eyes water as she stares at him, her lips beginning to tremble as soon as the words leave her mouth. The anger on Richard’s face contorts into concern as he takes her into his arms. Anne nestles her head on his chest and wraps her arms around his waist as she cries silently. 

 

“Shh, my love,” Richard whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “All will be well.” 

 

But Anne can not back down now. For if she lets him win, then she’ll never summon the strength to actually go through with it. 

 

“Richard, if you love me, you’ll do this for me.” 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“Please, Richard,” she begs, pulling back far enough so that she can look him in the eyes. “Do this for me. Please. If you love me, if you really, _truly,_ love me then you will do this. You will do the one thing I can do for you.” 

 

“Anne. . .” 

 

“I implore you, Richard. My husband. Please.” 

 

“Alright,” he agrees finally, after a torturous silence. “Alright.” 

 

Anne nearly sobs with relief. She flings herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, “Thank you.” 

 

They disentangle themselves after a great deal of time has passed, but Anne does not want to let go of him. Not yet. 

 

They stare into each others eyes and Anne— 

 

He bends down and kisses her on the lips. 

 

The touch is light and quick, as though they were children having their first kiss and not man and wife. Anne barely has time to close her eyes before he pulls away. 

 

“No,” she says, unable to stop herself. 

 

Richard freezes at her words, meeting her eyes uncertainly. 

 

“Stay.” 

 

He doesn’t respond, and Anne wonders if she’s asking too much of him. So whether it be fear or desperation that motivates her, Anne is not sure. What she does know is that _she_ is the one who kisses him this time around. 

 

It has been almost a year since they’ve done this. 

 

His lips taste as they did months before; soft, with subtle hints of his favourite wine and grapes. Anne gasps as he kisses her back and her hands rise to the nape of his neck, clutching on his dark curls. Richard presses her against a bedpost as he starts to press kisses down the side of her exposed neck. 

 

“My love,” he murmurs, reaching for the back of her gown. 

 

“Richard,” she whispers back, gently stroking his curls as he begins to unlace her dress. “Oh, my dear Richard.” 

 

Anne is left in only her shift and hose in mere moments and though she desires to undress Richard, she has no desire whatsoever to stop touching him, even for a moment. Yet not before long, her desire to feel his skin against hers is too great for her to ignore. She presses a quick kiss to his lips before undoing his doublet, watching with impatience as he shrugs it over his head, his shirt following quickly thereafter. 

 

She touches his chest delicately, her hands absorbing the warmth of his body. Her eyes linger on his chest, taking in the marks that are still there and searching for anything new. Anything she had not yet seen. Her hands begin to trail down his chest slowly and Anne inwardly smirks with satisfaction at how his body tenses in pleasure due to her touch. 

 

“I’ve missed you,” he tells her, causing her to look up at him. 

 

Her heart aches as she gazes at him and she raises a hand to cup his cheek. 

 

“And I you,” she replies. 

 

_Would doing this make it harder?_ she wonders briefly, _should we not?_

 

But Anne can not stand the thought of never touching Richard again, of never feeling his love ever again. It had been so long. Too long. 

 

It takes them a while to undress each other, getting lost in each others touch and kisses more than once. But soon enough, Richard is climbing onto the bed, dragging Anne there with him. She falls clumsily onto his chest, causing them both to laugh. 

 

It dies quickly though, as their lips find each other once more. Soon, Anne is positioning herself over Richard, each of her thighs on the either side of his hips. 

 

“You do not have to,” he says suddenly, linking their hands together. “I do not wish to pressure you, my lady.”

 

Anne marvels at how such an intelligent man could be so _stupid._

 

“You fool,” she muses gently, warmth filling her chest. “I want to.” 

 

When it is over and they have found their pleasure, Anne lies on top of him, her energy depleted. He plays with a strand of her chestnut hair, curling the lock around his finger as his other hand strokes the small of her back. 

 

“I love you,” he tells her quietly. 

 

Anne lets him say it this time. 

 

xii. 

 

“Anne,” Richard murmurs the next morning, hovering over her. 

 

Anne smiles under his gaze, raising her head to plant a long kiss on his lips. She giggles when he almost loses his balance and puts his full weight on top of her, watching as he struggles to disentangle his hand from the sheets. 

 

“My love,” he murmurs, pressing kisses down her neck, behind her neck, on her breasts. Her laughter quickly disappears as she tugs on his hair, content. 

 

The door opens quickly, causing both of them to stiffen and turn their attention to the door. Veronique and her ladies are stunned at the sight of Richard in her bed and Anne would be amused if she were not so embarrassed. She buries her face in Richard’s arm, feeling his muscles quiver as he struggles not to laugh. 

 

But then there is a gasp that emerges from the door and Anne— 

 

The Lady Rivers is standing near the back of the group, looking as though she had seen a ghost. _She must have returned overnight,_ Anne thinks. 

 

Her presence saps any amusement out of the room and causes unbearable tension.

 

“Leave us,” is all Richard says, his face carefully guarded. 

 

Her ladies obey him at once, but all Anne sees before the door closes is the look on the Rivers girl face, how her lovely blue eyes had begun to fill with tears. 

 

Richard sighs loudly, turning back to face her. The peace they had felt before had vanished, replaced by an awkwardness Anne did not quite know how to handle. 

 

“That was a surprise,” she comments mildly, watching as Richard moves to lie next to her. 

 

He does not say anything. 

 

“She loves you,” Anne admits, though it pains her to do so. 

 

“I do not love her,” Richard replies quickly, looking rather alarmed. 

 

Anne lets out an amused sound, watching him carefully. But she does not say anything. 

 

“How could I?” Richard asks playfully, pressing a kiss on her exposed shoulder. “When I have you.” 

 

_But you won’t for much longer,_ she thinks sadly, even as he starts to kiss down her body. _We need to start to face reality again, Richard. We must begin to talk of the divorce proceedings and your remarriage._

 

But Anne could allow herself one morning. 

 

Just one more. 

 

Or just a little bit of time. 

 

To enjoy this. 

 

But God could not even grant them that. 

 

When Anne and Richard eventually return to preside over court, the morning session has barely begun when a messenger runs down the great hall, looking scared out of his wits. 

 

“The King,” he gasps, once he has finished with his curtsies. “It is Tudor.” 

 

Richard instantly tenses beside her at his words. 

 

He leaves with his councillors moments afterwards and it is only in the afternoon when they emerge. 

 

“Richard, what is it?” she questions quietly, after he sits beside her on his throne. 

 

“The boy plans to invade this summer,” he responds, his eyes narrow. “The French are supplying him with troops.” 

 

“Dear God,” she whispers, placing a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “You will beat him, Richard,” she says fiercely. “You will.” 

 

He smiles sadly at her, not looking entirely convinced, but not looking completely hopeless either. 

 

“For you,” he replies after a moment, “I will do anything.” 

 

— 

 

“I must go on progress,” Richard tells her later that night, when they have returned to her chambers. The children have just left to go to bed and Anne is relieved to have time alone with him. She was desperate to learn more of the impending attack. 

 

“Progress?” Anne questions lightly, regarding Richard curiously. 

 

“I need to get in touch with the people,” he comments lightly, his grey eyes meeting her blue ones. “And I need to begin raising money for the loans through the noblemen. It is always harder for a man to say no to something if the person asking it is in front of him.” 

 

“But what if you are hurt?” Anne asks. “Or if you catch an illness?” 

 

“I have equal, if not greater chance of dying in battle, my love,” replies Richard, his face calm. 

 

Anne is disturbed by his words. 

 

Richard is not allowed to die. 

 

Not before her. 

 

It’s not allowed. 

 

He looks down at his hands and swallows uncomfortably. 

 

“Anne, the divorce—“ 

 

“Can wait,” she interrupts, without hesitation. “We can not handle the scandal and the rumours right now. The cost it too great. We may speak of it after you defeat Tudor.” 

 

Richard smiles at her, his face full of relief. 

 

“Thank you, my love,” he tells her, “Thank you.” 

 

Something in Anne tightens at his words but Anne tries to shove her sudden uneasiness away. 

 

_Awfully convenient,_ some dark part of her grumbles, _almost too convenient._

 

Anne tries to ignore it. 

 

— 

 

But she can not, as it seems. 

 

She does not voice her concern or suspicions to Veronique or Sir Robert, and merely carries on with life as if nothing was wrong. Richard prepares to go on progress, spending endless hours in the council rooms dictating orders and organising supplies. Anne helps where she can, writing to Lord’s in the North and telling them that war is on the horizon. Richard may have been Lord of the North for a decade, but it was the Neville family that they truly obeyed, even if they did hold some admiration for Richard. 

 

If they would not do it for him, they would for her. 

 

But Anne’s suspicions continue to plague her mind. 

 

Even when she spends time with the children, Anne’s attention is not completely there. If Veronique and Sir Robert notice, they do not say anything. Richard has not come to her bed ever since the Lady Rivers came back to court and Anne makes sure that she has minimal interaction with the girl. Richard said he did not love her, said that he only loved Anne but — 

 

She does not trust him as she once did. 

 

Not at all. 

 

One day, near the end of January, days before Richard is meant to leave on progress, Anne visits his bedchambers. The guards look rather alarmed to see her there but Anne does not notice. 

 

She pushes the door open, eager to spend some time alone with her husband for the first time in weeks. 

 

“Richard—“ 

 

He is embracing the Rivers girl. 

 

Her words catch in her throat at the scene in front of her, how his arms are wrapped around her waist as the girl sobs into his shoulder. He’s murmuring something, Anne can’t quite hear what but she does not want to. 

 

_You fool,_ her mind whispers, as bile rises up her throat. _You played right into his hands._

 

Richard notices her a moment, his eyes widening as he realises he’s been caught. 

 

“Anne,” he calls out, as she turns on her heel to walk out of the room. “Wait!” 

 

Anne does no such thing. 

 

But she does not flee to her chambers. No, that would be too obvious. She flees to a chapel instead and though she longs to be alone, she is pleasantly surprised when she sees Sir Robert in the chapel as well. 

 

“Your grace,” Sir Robert utters, bowing appropriately. 

 

Anne does something that surprises them both. 

 

She walks right into his arms and hugs him. 

 

But Sir Robert surprises her as well when he immediately returns the embrace. 

 

“I’ve been a fool,” she tells him. “I’ve been such a fool, Sir Robert.” 

 

Sir Robert leads her back to her solar once she explained to him what happened and Anne is surprised yet again at the anger in his eyes. Yet he does not speak throughout any of it, merely lets her express her anger. The only time he talks is when they arrive at her solar. 

 

“The King is a wise ruler, my lady,” he says quietly, so that even she strains to hear him. “But it grieves me to hear that he causes you pain.” 

 

She expresses her thanks and watches with fondness in her eyes as he takes his leave. 

 

As soon as he leaves however, her anger with herself returns. She remembers Duchess Cecily’s words, how she had urged Anne to wait until after Tudor had been defeated until they got the divorce. This must have been Richard’s plan all along. Bring her here, publicly reconcile with her so that the Northern Lords felt her position was secure and continue to charm the Rivers girl behind her back so that Tudor’s claim was discredited. It was clever. Ruthlessly clever. 

 

“Anne.” 

 

Anne jumps at the sight of Richard in her bedchamber. Her ladies are nowhere to be seen. It is only him. 

 

“It was not what it looked like,” he tells her, urging her to believe him. “I swear to you—“ 

 

“You were very clever,” Anne interrupts calmly, meeting his gaze. She is careful to keep her anger beneath the surface, to keep her expression cooly indifferent. “Publicly reconciling with me, delaying the proceedings until Tudor openly declared war so that we would have to wait, making me believe you loved me so that I would agree to wait —“ 

 

“I do love you!” he declares, moving closer to her. “I do, Anne! I swear it!” 

 

“I do not believe you,” she replies instantly. “Can you deny that there is truth in my accusations?” 

 

Richard falters momentarily, long enough for Anne to know that her suspicions had some merit. 

 

“All I wanted was to prevent the divorce from happening,” he says lowly. 

 

“And convince the Rivers girl you planned to crown her,” she counters. 

 

“The girl was in tears,” he explains, lowering his eyes, as though he were ashamed. “And I needed to comfort her—“ 

 

“You _needed_ to comfort her?” she questions shrewdly. “You claim to love me, but evidently not enough to stop dishonouring me!” 

 

“I do not love her!” he hisses. “I have not lain with her or kissed her besides that one time which I told you of!” 

 

“Yet you embrace her,” she continues, as though he had not spoken. “You whisper sweet caresses in her ears, whisper that you bed me only because of your duty to the crown, that I am some old, boring leech who you are stuck with—“ 

 

He captures her lips roughly but Anne is quick to pull away. 

 

“No!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “You can not kiss me and make it all better, Richard. You may be a King, but you are not that powerful.” 

 

“I have to win,” he whispers. “And I can not do it without you. I can not. Not without your love. Believe what you will Anne, but that is the truth. I need you.” 

 

“You have my support,” she answers finally. “You even have my love, Richard. It seems that despite what we do to each other, you will always have that. But you do not have my trust. Not anymore, especially not after this.” 

 

“I thought I could change your mind, Anne. That’s why I delayed everything Anne. I thought I could change your mind before Tudor declared war.” 

 

Anne does not look at him. 

 

“You truly believe me capable of such a deception?” he asks, his voice full of hurt. “To you?” 

 

“I do not know,” Anne replies honestly. “We do not know each other anymore, Richard. We were fools to try and believe that one night of passion could fix all that.” 

 

Richard leaves shortly thereafter. 

 

When he leaves a few days afterwards, he declares that Anne will preside over court in his absence and she will take care of the nation’s matters while he goes on progress. Anne would be touched if she were not still so angry with him. 

 

Anne observes as he walks towards his horse, his crown gleaming under the winter sunlight. It suits him so well, his crown. It looks as though it were always made to be on there. 

 

“Richard,” she calls out, watching as he pauses. She moves to meet him halfway, unsure of what exactly she wants to say but knowing that she has to say it anyway. “Don’t do anything reckless,” she says quietly. “Please. Stay safe.” 

 

No matter how angry or confused she is with him, she does not want him to be hurt. 

 

Not that. 

 

Never that. 

 

He smiles at her and repeats the words he said weeks ago. 

 

“For you, I will do anything.” 

 

xiii. 

 

Anne is in charge of court matters in Richard’s absence. 

 

She oversees complaints, grants requests, is informed of all matters of the realm. She manages her household and takes care of the children, making sure that they are attending their lessons and never bored. Never neglected. She does not want them to feel alone or abandoned, and though their presence brings her great comfort, Anne is worried that she is not spending enough time with them. 

 

“Perhaps they should return to Warwick Castle,” she tells Sir Robert, “I would not want my mother to get lonely.” 

 

So she makes plans to send the children back to Warwick Castle by the end of March and spends as much time with them as her schedule allows. She rereads Richard’s letters as often as she can, making sure to get daily updates on his progress throughout the country. So far, it had been a success. With all the Lord’s pleading their loyalty and publicly vowing to join him in the fight against Tudor. 

 

It makes Anne’s heart tighten with emotion; she is so proud of him, despite their argument. Despite the distance between them. 

 

The Rivers girl seems beside herself. Walking around Anne warily, as though she expects her to bite her head off. Though admittedly, Anne had spend a great deal of time imagining ripping her head off or scratching the girls eyes out. She knew it was beneath her to be jealous of the girl, she knew it was a sin and admonished by God. But she did not care. 

 

At least she was careful to keep her distaste for the girl at bay. She was far more amiable to her sister Cecily, who reminded her an awful lot of her namesake. 

 

All is well, for the most part. 

 

The Kingdom is stable. 

 

It is approaching the end of March when disaster strikes. 

 

Anne is standing by a window in her solar, admiring how blue the sky is. Spring has come in full force, with flowers blooming and the weather growing better with every passing day. She watches with amusement as the children play in the courtyard. 

 

One moment she is fine and the next she is not. 

 

She turns to speak to someone— whether to Veronique or Sir Robert she is not sure— and feels so nauseous her vision begins to blur. 

 

“Your grace?” Veronique questions, alarm making her voice shrill. 

 

Anne tries to speak but she is too overcome with her sudden nausea that all she manages to do is open her mouth. 

 

“My lady?” It is Sir Robert who approaches her and it is he who catches her when she faints. 

 

— 

 

When Anne wakes, the sun has begun to set. She can see it from her bed, the curtains drawn so that she can see through her window. The sky is a mixture of pink, orange and purple, and the sight momentarily takes her breath away. 

 

“Anne?” Veronique stirs at the sight of her awake. 

 

She had put a chair by her bedside and must have been sitting there for a while because when Anne woke her friend was fast asleep. Anne had been in no hurry to wake her. She felt surprisingly alright, considering she had just fainted hours before. It was most unlike the other time she had fainted, when Richard had risen from his illness. 

 

There was no trace of the nausea that had suddenly taken a hold of her. 

 

“Where is the physician?” Anne questions, once Veronique has finished asking her if she felt well or needed anything. 

 

“He is waiting in the solar with Sir Robert,” Veronique murmurs, looking worried. 

 

Fear takes a hold of Anne’s heart for a moment. What if she was ill again? She did not have the cough that had plagued her the last time. No blood came from her mouth. But what if it were another illness? Perhaps the sweating sickness? Or a malignant tumour of some kind?

 

“Shall I fetch him?” Veronique asks her. 

 

“Not now,” Anne tells her, raising a hand to her heart. “I need a moment.” _To brace myself,_ she did not say. 

 

She turns her gaze to Veronique and is suddenly so overcome with emotion that she almost begins to cry. 

 

“Where would I be without you?” she asks her, swiping at her eyes. 

 

Veronique laughs at her words, her eyes growing wet as they stare at each other. Anne grabs a hold of her hands and squeezes them tightly. 

 

“I do not know how I can ever thank you,” she tells her. “You have done so much for me.” 

 

“You would be fine, without me, my lady,” Veronique replies, her cheeks flushing. 

 

“No,” Anne admits. “I would not.” 

 

They bask in the comfortable silence that follows and it takes a great deal of strength for Anne to ask her to fetch the physician. Her heart races uncomfortably as she waits for his arrival and she is taken aback by the expression on his face. 

 

His expression is not grave or dire. As a matter of fact, it is rather in awe, like how it was when Anne miraculously recovered from her illness. ‘A miracle’, he had called it. Anne wondered what news he could possibly discover from her body to cause him such joy. 

 

“Doctor,” she acknowledges, careful to hide her nervousness. “What ails me?” 

 

“Nothing,” he responds. “Nothing ails you.” 

 

Anne frowns at him, not quite sure what to say. 

 

“What say you?” Veronique questions, returning to her chair at Anne’s side. Sir Robert is close to follow her, though he is standing on her other side. 

 

“Speak,” Sir Robert commands, his face tight. 

 

The doctor looks as though he has been put under some kind of spell, his eyes are so dazed. 

 

“It would seem that the Queen is with child.” 

 

Anne can not breathe. 

 

“I beg your pardon?” she questions, her heart dropping to her stomach. 

 

Veronique reaches for her hand and gives it a tight squeeze. 

 

“It would seem that you are with child, your grace,” the doctor responds, looking jubilant. 

 

“You jest,” Anne accuses, unable to believe it. “I have not been with child for a decade.” 

 

“Is it possible that you are mistaken?” Veronique asks, sounding rather stunned. 

 

“The probability is very unlikely,” the doctor answers, seemingly unaware of the impact of his words. “Her grace exhibits ever indication that she is indeed with child. Her stomach has begun to round and I assume that her moon’s blood has not come.” 

 

Anne and Veronique exchange a glance; her bleeding had been very irregular ever since her illness. When it had not come, it had not seemed very unusual to them. As for her putting on weight, Anne had welcomed it. Her body had become very malnourished and Anne welcomed any additional weight that helped regain her curves. 

 

She had not even thought she was with child. 

 

Anne was barren. 

 

It was known throughout the Kingdom that she could no longer produce a child. 

 

It was known even by the Pope— 

 

Anne grows cold as she remembers the divorce proceedings. With this recent development, it would not be allowed to go through. Anne would be Queen. 

 

Veronique and Sir Robert reach the same conclusion as her, if their expressions are anything to go by. 

 

“I would say that you are almost three months with child,” the physician continues. “The danger for miscarriage has almost passed, your grace.” 

 

Anne begins to tremble and it is not because she is cold. 

 

“I am with child,” she repeats, not quite aware of her own actions. 

 

“Most certainly, your grace. We must inform the King at once.” 

 

_Richard,_ Anne thinks, her heart roaring with emotion, _oh my dear Richard._

 

xiv. 

 

Rumours spread around court. 

 

All say that she is ill once more; that consumption has plagued her once again. Or that she has developed some other, vile illness. Anne does nothing to dispute these rumours. Merely tells the court—and Richard— that she had not eaten enough and had been plagued by a momentary spell. Nothing more. 

 

She does not speak of the child in her belly. 

 

Not to anyone. 

 

She spends a great deal of time praying, whether it be to God or her loved ones Anne does not know.

 

She hasn’t quite comprehended the news yet. It is as though nothing had happened. They had all been sworn to secrecy by Anne. She did not want anyone to know. Not even Richard. 

 

Richard is not due back from progress until mid May and it is now approaching mid April. They children have still not left for Warwick Castle and when Anne’s mother questions her about it in her many letters, Anne merely says that she wishes to have them close to her, for she is lonely at court and wishes to see them before the battle. 

 

But mostly, if she is being truthful, she tries very hard to imagine a fourth child playing along with them. 

 

A boy with her light curls or a girl with Richard’s grey eyes. 

 

But the idea seems foreign to her, as though she were imagining something completely unfathomable. 

 

_But it isn’t,_ her mind whispers, _you have a child in your belly, Anne._

 

It has begun to show, as well. 

 

Anne wakes early in the morning and inspects her body in the mirror. She slips out of her nightgown and stands there naked, trying to notice the changes in her body. Her slim stomach has begun to round and her breasts have started to grow larger as well, and far more sensitive. 

 

_Dear God,_ she thinks, terrified, as she places her hands on the bump. _I never thought I would have this again._

 

She thinks of Ned and of their stillborn Cecily, and her heart aches because this child will never get to know them. That Ned will never have gotten to have sibling. She is careful to ensure that Veronique is there earlier than the rest of her ladies and that she is already dressed by the time they come to help her with her hair. 

 

But this will not last forever. 

 

Soon the bump will grow too big to be able to hide under her gowns, no matter how bulky they are. 

 

The moment that the news truly sinks in for her is when she nearly falls down the stairs. Anne is walking with some of the councillors, arguing with them over whether or not to send more troops to the Welsh borders when Anne slips. Some servant had spilled some wine near the edge of the stairs and had not cleaned it in time. One moment Anne is standing upright and the next Anne is falling forwards, the stairs there to greet her as— 

 

Sir Robert manages to grab her before she falls and Anne is shaken. So shaken. Her hands rise to her stomach as she murmurs, “My god.” And it only when Sir Robert glances at her warningly that she realises what she’s implying. 

 

“I’m alright,” she tells the councillors, raising her hands to her heart. “My heart was given a large fright, that is all.” 

 

But Anne’s fear had not been for herself. Her mind had immediately gone to the child in her belly. 

 

_No one will ever hurt you,_ she thinks, as she stares down at the piece of paper on her desk. _I will take care of you._

 

She writes to Richard on the tenth of April and tells him that she is with child. 

 

— 

 

Anne does not receive any reply. 

 

She worries that her letter had fallen into enemy hands or that it had gotten misplaced somehow. 

 

_What if I sent it to the wrong person?_ she worries, _What if someone wretched like Lord Stanley gets a hold of the letter? Anne, you fool._

 

One week passes. 

 

Two weeks pass. 

 

Anne hears from Richard a fortnight after she sends the letter. 

 

She is in her solar, answering her most recent correspondence when Veronique bursts into her chamber. 

 

“The King’s party has been seen approaching London,” she tells her. 

 

“But the King was near Wales a mere fortnight ago,” Anne replies in disbelief. “There is no possible way he managed to cover such a distance in such little time.” 

 

“He did, Anne,” Veronique tells her, a small smile playing on her lips. “The whole court is whispering about the reason for his sudden return.” 

 

“No doubt my imminent death,” Anne comments wryly. 

 

Her insides twist with nervousness as she rises from her chair. 

 

“I will await him in the courtyard,” she tells Veronique, reaching for her cloak. 

 

And so she does. 

 

She stands there waiting, like she did when Richard was returning home from France all those years ago. 

 

The courtyard is eerily quiet as she awaits his return. The sun beats down on her as she waits, casting the grey courtyard in a splendid light, but Anne barely notices. Her heart is beating like a drum in her chest. She links her hands together as she tries to stop herself from shaking. 

 

_Oh Richard,_ she thinks. 

 

Her ears perk up at the sound of horses nearby. Anne’s eyes dart to the gate and sure enough, she recognises  Richard leading the party at once. His armour is covered in a thick layer of dirt, as though he had been riding non-stop and had not the time to clean it. Even his horse looks tired and Anne gathers that from merely glancing at it. 

 

He clambers down his horse in no time, not even waiting for someone to grab a hold of its reigns before he catches sight of her and rushes over. Anne goes down the stairs calmly, her heart beating against her ribcage. 

 

“Husband,” she greets, once he is within ear shot. “It is a pleasure—“ 

 

Richard kisses her on the lips, stifling Anne’s words. 

 

He pulls back before she can even blink and — 

 

“I dared not think it true,” he gasps, glancing down at her stomach. “I could not believe it. I had to see you at once. Anne— my love— is it true? Are you with child?” 

 

He stares at her stomach in such hope and disbelief that Anne chuckles.

 

“Yes,” she tells him, smiling widely as she places his hand on the bump hidden by her gown. “I am with child, my Richard.” 

 

Richard blinks at her; once, twice and then proceeds to smile so widely Anne thinks his face will split in two. He kisses her once more, though it is clumsy due to his elation and Anne laughs with surprise when he lifts her in his arms and spins her around. 

 

“A little prince or princess,” he says, loudly enough for to draw people’s attention. “You are with child.” 

 

Anne nods yet again, so happy she feels as though she could fly. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

Her eyes fill with tears, but for the first time in years they are happy ones. 

 

“I am.” 

 

Richard smiles at her and the distance between them evaporates in that moment. 

 

“I love you,” he declares. 

 

There is no doubt in her heart now. 

 

“I know,” she replies, smiling so widely her cheeks have begun to hurt. “I know.” 

 

xv. 

 

Richard watches over her like a hawk. 

 

He sleeps beside her every night, bathes with her, dines with her. There is rarely ever a moment that he is not by her side, and that is only when he is at his war councils. Tudor’s impending attack stresses the both of them, but the elation of their sudden miracle has yet to wear off. 

 

It made Anne cackle inwardly at the look on the court’s face when they announced she was with child. Surprise and shock were the most common expressions and there was also joy on the faces of Richard’s closest friends like Francis and William. Even the children were excited as well. 

 

But Anne was well aware of the meaning this baby posed as well. Many deemed this as a blessing, as a sign from God that Richard’s reign was good and true. 

 

Though April was a happy month for Richard’s reign, it also meant that it had been a year since Ned’s death. 

 

His one year anniversary comes so suddenly Anne is overcome with guilt and depression. Here she was, overjoyed at the new babe in her womb, while her boy was in his grave. The day was a solemn one, for both her and Richard and he had one hundred candles lit in his honour and had the bells rung and masses sung to the public. 

 

“What if this child dies as well?” she asks him, when they are both in bed that night. “What if it is stillborn, like our Cecily or what if it is a girl, Richard? What then?” 

 

“If it is a girl, we will love and cherish her,” he replies, pressing a kiss to her head. Anne nestles into his side more comfortably, taking comfort in the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek. “And the babe will not die, my love. I know it.” 

 

“And Tudor?” 

 

“Tudor will be crushed,” he promises her. “And our baby will be safe, that I swear to you.” 

 

“I can’t believe it has been a year,” is all she can manage to say. 

 

“I know,” Richard says. 

 

—

 

Their relationship is not what it once was. 

 

The trust between them is not as it used to be. They do not have the time to try and fix what has broken them apart time and time again. But Anne does not feel the distance as she had before. It was not her primary concern now. 

 

Her main concern was for her babe and its health. 

 

And for Richard. 

 

Yet, the Lady Rivers and Sir Robert are mountains between them, and there are times when Anne wants to scream because of how lovelorn Elizabeth’s eyes are as she stares at Richard, and Anne knows that Richard does not trust Sir Robert as he once did. 

 

His eyes nearly jump out of their sockets when he sees the two of them together. 

 

But they do not talk about it. 

 

Possibly because they do not want to waste what time they have left and possibly because they were too afraid to ruin what they had now. 

 

Anne’s belly grows bigger and bigger. 

 

Her nausea passes—thank God— and her cravings begin. Anne eats an abundance of apples and pickled eggs and though Richard wrinkles his nose at the latter, he does not hesitate in having them brought to her when she asks for it. Anne is treated like some precious jewel; like she is something fragile. And Anne supposes she is, in some way. 

 

She is carrying the future of the York line in her belly. 

 

It scares Anne to think of it like that, but she knows it is the truth. 

 

She tries to preoccupy herself with the children and for a while it does work, but Anne knows that she can not keep them with her for long. By mid May, Anne has them sent to back to Warwick Castle to be with her mother. Richard had arranged for them to travel to Burgundy before Tudor invaded and Anne nearly cries with relief at the knowledge that they will be safe, no matter what. 

 

In truth, she had been worried that Richard would overlook Jack in the matter. She knows that they are not closer, not like how he is with Teddy and Maggie, but she hoped that he would consider Jack when making plans for their niece and nephew. It was a relief to discover that he had arranged for Jack to travel with them as well. 

 

“What is your fascination with the boy?” he asks her one evening. 

 

Anne looks up from her embroidery, not needing clarification on who the boy was. 

 

“I don’t quite know what distinguished him from any other child,” she admits truthfully, meeting his gaze. “All I know is that I saw him struggling for that wretched dog and he took a place in my heart. That’s all I can say.” 

 

Richard nods solemnly, avoiding her gaze. 

 

It is moments like these where Anne is reminded that Richard did not have the opportunity to grieve like she did; did not have the freedom as she had at Warwick Castle to grieve as she liked. 

 

“He is an easy boy to love,” Anne tells him. 

 

“He reminds me of Ned,” Richard confesses. 

 

Anne smiles sadly. 

 

“He reminded me of him too,” she replies slowly, reaching for his hand. “Jack is not a replacement for Ned, my love. No child could ever take our boy’s place. It is not a betrayal to love him, Richard. It took me a while to believe that, but it is true.” 

 

Richard squeezes her hand tightly as a small, playful smile graces his lips, a stark contrast to the serious expression in his eyes. 

 

“What would I do without you?” he jests, though there is a hint of seriousness in his words. 

 

“Flounder,” Anne replies, causing him to chuckle. 

 

The babe shifts in her womb at that moment, causing Anne to let out a small gasp. 

 

“What is it?” Richard asks, alarmed. 

 

Anne squeezes his hand tightly, shooting him a small smile of reassurance.

 

“The babe just moved again,” she tells him, placing his hand on her stomach. Richard had missed this with Ned; he had spent most of the time securing the North for his brother and had just barely made it in time for Anne’s labour. 

 

“Oh,” he utters, staring at her stomach in awe. “My little prince or princess.” 

 

Anne feels so much love for the babe and for Richard she thinks her heart will melt. It is moments like these where Anne forgets her fears and worries. Where it is like she and Richard are no longer King and Queen and are still at Warwick Castle, free from the court’s vipers and backstabbers. 

 

Anne notices how Richard is careful not to openly declare that the babe is a boy and— 

 

She does not know how to feel about it. 

 

“Richard,” she says gently, “The chances of me becoming with child ever again are very slim. If this babe is a girl —“ 

 

“We will love her,” he interrupts, his hand moving from her stomach to her wrist. 

 

“I know you will,” Anne assures him, knowing it to be true. “And I will as well. But you need a son and if I can not give you one —“ 

 

“God has blessed us with this child, Anne,” Richard interrupts stubbornly. “I care not its gender. If it is a boy, then we shall have a prince. If it is a girl, we shall have a most beloved princess. If God has blessed us now, who says we can not be blessed again? We are still both young, Anne.” 

 

Anne’s doubts are still high though and Richard must sense this because he sighs and says more firmly, “Anne, I care not so much its sex as I do for your health. Need I not remind you that this time last year you were on your deathbed? And with all this additional stress with that wretched Tudor, I worry for you greatly. I rather believe that it will be an empty victory if I shall win without you by my side.” 

 

“Richard!” Anne admonishes. “Do not say such things!” 

 

He shrugs uncaringly. 

 

“You are my heart Anne,” he repeats. “If something shall ever happen to you, I shall go mad like King Henry.”

 

He smiles at her then, though it does not reach his eyes. 

 

“You’re not allowed to die before me,” Anne tells him suddenly, her eyes piercing with tears. “I forbid it.” 

 

Richard laughs gently, reaching forward to swipe her tears with his hands. 

 

“I have no intention of going anywhere without you, my love.” 

 

He kisses her gently and they only pull apart when her ladies enter the room and begin to gush at the sight. Anne knows that it embarrasses Richard when they do this, knows that he has always been one to be wary of public affection. 

 

He retreats to his council chambers for a few more hours before bed and Anne tries to believe his reassurances. She does. 

 

But she can not let go of her fear completely. 

 

xvi. 

 

Anne is sent to Ludlow Castle for the birth of her child. 

 

It is shortly before she is meant to begin her confinement and her and Richard have spent the last several weeks discussing where she should birth the child. Richard had been adamantly against her birthing the child and London and Anne finds she can not blame him. If Richard shall fall and Anne still in London. . . She dared not think of what would become of her and her child. They discussed Warwick Castle seriously but ultimately decided against it; Ned was born there and grew up there. Warwick Castle was his in their memories and it felt strangely inappropriate to birth the child there. 

 

Middle ham was discussed but ultimately discarded since the physicians said it was too far a travel for her. Ludlow Castle was ultimately decided upon since it was within close enough distance for her to travel and since the castle and its surrounding occupants were firm supporters of the House of York and if anything should happen to Richard— anything at all, they would protect her and the babe. 

 

Would stay loyal to their cause. 

 

And Richard’s mother was still there after all. 

 

Anne dreads to leave Richard’s side and is comforted by the fact that he will shortly join her there for as long as he can before Tudor arrives. 

 

Yet leaves Richard she does and Anne is tired and aching by the time they arrive at Ludlow three days after her departure form London. Anne has not seen Duchess Cecily since her visit to Warwick Castle and she is surprised at how gentle her eyes are, how glad she seems to see Anne. 

 

Anne is settled in her chambers that night, her stomach large and protruding as she lies on her back, supported by numerous pillows. They are soft and large as she likes and Anne wonders if Richard wrote to his mother to tell her to prepare her chambers this way. _It sure sounds like something he would do,_ she thinks, smiling a little. 

 

“What brings such a smile to your face, your grace?” Duchess Cecily asks from the doorway before moving to her bedside. Anne admires how graceful the woman is, despite her age. Despite all the hardships she has endured. 

 

“I was thinking of Richard,” she admits, fingering the linen. “I wondered whether or not he had written to tell you of my preference for large, fluffy pillows.” 

 

The older woman cackles. 

 

“Indeed he did,” she muses. “Practically begged me to ensure that they were brought for you. As if I planned to make you sleep on the floor.” 

 

They bask in their amusement for a few moments and once it dissipates, the Duchess talks once more. 

 

“I birthed all of my children at this castle,” she starts, sitting on the chair by her bedside. “All twelve of my children. I have lived in this castle for so long I can scarcely remember a time where I did not. You and your child shall be safe here, Anne.” 

 

They spend a surprising amount of time together, her and the Duchess. Anne is rarely allowed to rise from her bed, only to relieve herself and to bathe. Her talks with the Duchess help keep her mind off Richard and the impending attack from Tudor, and their talks range from religious works to past memories, those of their childhood. 

 

It is the day before Richard is due to arrive from London that the Duchess becomes emotional. 

 

“I can not express how glad I am that the two of you reconciled,” she tells Anne, after dismissing her ladies from the room. “The death of a child is monstrous, Anne and can either divide or reunite couples.” 

 

Anne is reminded  then of how many children the Duchess has lost and her admiration for her increases by leaps and bounds. 

 

“However did you do it?” she questions gently, “I could barely survive the loss of one child. You have lost so many.” 

 

“When I lost some of my children in their infancy, I knew to expect such an outcome. I have been luckier than most in that majority of my children lived to see their adolescent years. The loss I felt when my babes died in their cradle was great, but not crippling. Perhaps it was dulled by the pain after the child birth or by how common it is. When I lost my Edmund, my quiet, studious Edmund, my loss was so great I could barely breathe.” Darkness crosses over her face as she remembers, clutching onto her ever present rosary. “But I had my other children to worry for and I could set my grief aside and focus on them.” 

 

“As for Edward and George. . . All I can say is that it is God’s plan, my Anne. That is all. And I shall accept God’s plan for me, as he does not give out more than someone can handle.” 

 

Anne is silent for a few moments, yet her curiosity is peaked. Richard had never talked of his elder brother before, only very briefly and, if Anne were to be honest, he only mentioned him in passing. 

 

“What was he like?” Anne asks carefully, not wanting to overstep. “Edmund? Richard has not—“ Anne pauses, unsure of how to finish her sentence. 

 

“Richard was young when Edmund died,” Cecily says, though her eyes look rather dazed. “He was only eight, I believe. And Edmund was always busy running around with Edward, they were always close, those two. He was tall, not as tall as Ned but tall nonetheless. He had fair hair and his features, while not as refined and charming as Ned’s, had a more delicate quality to them. He was ever so serious, rather like Richard.” 

 

Anne chuckles at that and her heart cries out at the tears in the elder woman’s eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, struggling to reach for the elder woman’s hand. “I did not intend to cause you hurt—“ 

 

“No, no, you did not,” Duchess Cecily replies, waving her concerns away as she swipes at her eyes. “It is merely that people rarely ask of my Edmund anymore. I have not spoken of him in years.” 

 

Anne smiles and finally manages to grasp the elder woman’s hand. 

 

— 

 

Anne wakes the next morning with a body curled up against her back. She freezes for a moment, a scream building in her throat before she realises that it is Richard. She turns her body so that she’s on her back and observes her husband as he rests. His chin is covered in a thin layer of stubble and his hair looks knotted and creased, as though he had not bothered to properly dress for bed. Anne notices his dirty boots thrown carelessly to the side of the bed, and how his doublet and pants lay on the ground next to them. 

 

He looks so tired, her husband and Anne aches to think of Tudor and the upcoming battle. 

 

The babe kicks at her stomach relentlessly and Anne lets out a small groan. 

 

“Come now,” she whispers, gently patting her belly in reply. “Give Mama a break, would you?” 

 

The babe kicks it answer. 

 

Anne laughs lightly, careful not to wake Richard. 

 

“I’m eager to meet you too,” she murmurs, shifting against her pillows. “Believe it or not, it is not entirely comfortable having you in me.”  And yet Anne is not quite eager to have her babe out of her stomach. She can protect it while it’s inside her. No one can take it from her. No illness can be exposed to it if she is not. 

 

It’s safe inside of her. 

 

It’s safe. 

 

“Anne,” Richard murmurs, burying his face in the side of her neck. 

 

“Did I wake you?” she whispers apologetically. 

 

He lets out a small groan in reply as he opens his eyes. 

 

“No,” he replies, his voice muffled by one of the pillows. He falls asleep shortly thereafter, leaving Anne to her own devices. There is not much for her to do really, except lie there. Anne is shortly due to begin her confinement and Anne knows that it only because she is the Queen that the priest has kept his disapproval to himself about how she should already be in confinement. It is the midst of July now. 

 

Anne glances out of the window, wishing she could be outside, enjoying the summer air. The sun had not yet fully risen, as it was rather early in the morning. Veronique and the rest of her ladies did not usually come until the sun had fully risen, as that was the time Anne usually woke. They entertained her as best they could, Veronique especially, with games of chess and cards. They brought her books and played her music and talked to her of their marriage prospects and their families and of fine silks. They did not speak to her of Tudor. Of the upcoming final battle. 

 

For they all knew that this would be the final battle. 

 

There would be no second chance for Tudor. If he failed in his quest for the throne now, with so much at stake, no one would ever support him. Chances are, he would be slain at the first opportunity. 

 

If Richard were to lose. . . 

 

Anne can not bare to think.

 

Can not even let herself contemplate the idea for too long. 

 

Anne doses off for a few more hours and wakes when Richard does so. 

 

“How has court been?” she asks him, after he had told her of her journey. 

 

His jaw tightens after the words leave her mouth and he is silent. 

 

Anne’s heart drops to her stomach. 

 

“What is it, Richard?” she questions. “What has happened? Do not shut me out.” 

 

His grey eyes meet hers hesitantly and his voice is neutral as he replies, “Lord Stanley has requested to go home to his estates. He claims that it will be easier for him to gather his forces if he does so.” 

 

“He is mad!” She exclaims, anger making her cheeks flush. “And a lecherous turn cloak! Richard, you must not let him! You must not! If you do so, keep a hold of all of his sons with you, so that he will not get any ideas. Richard, you must promise me —“ 

 

“Shh, my love,” he hushes, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. 

 

“Do not do anything reckless,” she begs, lacing their hands together. “I could not bare it. Do not play with my heart so.” 

 

“I swear I will not,” he promises, kissing the bridge of her nose. “I will do anything you ask of me, my heart.” 

 

Anne quiets down now, momentarily appeased. 

 

“How are you feeling?” he inquires, unlinking one of his hands from hers so that he can place it on her stomach. “And how are you?” he asks the babe, moving down the bed so his head is next to her stomach. The babe does not kick or shift. 

 

“You do not think he can hear you, do you?” 

 

Richard shoots her a look and Anne laughs loudly at the affronted expression on his face. 

 

“I’m your Papa,” he informs the babe. 

 

He pauses for a few moments, unable to find the words to convey what he desires to say. 

 

“I love you very much,” he says, his voice surprisingly emotional. “And if I do not get to meet you—“ 

 

“Richard—“ 

 

“If I do not get to meet you,” he repeats, “I just wanted you to know that. You are a blessing to me and your mother.” 

 

Anne is close to tears at his declaration. 

 

“I love you,” she tells him, for the first time in. . . Anne can not remember. Too long. 

 

Richard kisses her, long and true and delicate and — 

 

“I lied,” he confesses, pulling back from her slightly. 

 

“What?” she asks, confused. 

 

“I don’t need my honour,” he explains. “I just need you. Only you.” 

 

“You have me,” she whispers, her voice soft. “You’ll always have me.” 

 

— 

 

Before Anne begins her confinement, she asks to speak to Sir Robert. Richard has left her alone for a short while to receive updates on Tudor and Anne wants to seize what chance she has to talk to her friend for what might be the last time. 

 

“Thank you,” she blurts out, after the awkward silence becomes nearly unbearable. “You have been a constant presence in my most troublesome of times and I would not be here without you.” 

 

“My lady, I am most honoured that you think of me in such a way,” he responds, his blue eyes grave as he stares down at her. “If I do not return —“ It pains Anne greatly to think of such a scenario— “I would just like to inform you that it has been the greatest honour of my life, serving you.” 

 

Anne is moved so greatly she is close to tears. 

 

“Take care of yourself,” she tells him, her heart bursting with emotion. “Do take care, Sir Robert.” 

 

“I will, my lady,” he replies. “And I will guard the King with my life.” 

 

—

 

Richard stays with her even when her confinement begins three days after he arrives at Ludlow. When the priest protests at his presence — nervously, since Richard is his sovereign— Richard merely arches his brow and asks who proposed to stop him. 

 

No one answered. 

 

He stays with her for as long as he possibly can. 

 

But then he leaves eventually. 

 

They spend his last night simply holding each other quietly, words not able to convey the depth of their emotion. 

 

“I shall return to you a Victor,” he promises her. 

 

“I know,” she tells him. “I know.” 

 

xvii. 

 

It is August and Anne is restless. 

 

Her back aches, her feet cramp and she is in pain. 

 

But most of all, she worries for Richard. 

 

Worries so much she can hardly breathe — can hardly think of anything other than him. 

 

No one tells her much of Tudor’s invasion. 

 

She knows that he has landed but other than that. . . Anne knows nothing. Anne suspects it is due to Richard’s command. No doubt he wanted nothing to distress her and the babe and lead to an early labour. Yet Anne is beyond desperate to know of what is happening in the outside world. She yearns to see Richard, to know that he is safe and there are nights where she is so worried she cries herself to sleep. 

 

Veronique stays with her on mosts nights to keep her company and to keep an eye on her, incase she goes into labour. Anne is grateful for her more than ever, sure that she would have gone mad if it were not for her company. 

 

One thing does change however. The Lady Rivers starts to make her appearance as one of Anne’s ladies. 

 

Anne wonders when the girl arrived, clueless as to why she would be suddenly sent to Anne’s service. 

 

When she asks Veronique, her friend is stunned so greatly it takes her several moments to reply. 

 

“Anne,” she says, eyeing her carefully. “The girl and her sister arrived shortly after his grace arrived.” 

 

Anne is rather taken aback as well. She must not have noticed with Richard here. 

 

If the girl feels any hatred towards her, she hides it well. She must know by now that her dreams of becoming Queen were never to be and that Richard could never make her anything more than his mistress. The girl—Elizabeth, is cordial and obedient. Yet she does not meet Anne’s eyes. Anne would pity her if she were not so occupied with worrying for Richard and her babe. 

 

Ned had been early birth as well and Anne wakes in the night, terrified that today will be the day. 

 

But as the days begin to slip by, Anne becomes strangely peaceful. Her worries begin to subside. Richard will win. 

 

He has to. 

 

God can not take him from her. Not now. Not after she had just gotten him back. 

 

Anne tires more easily now. She reads letters from the children in Burgundy, thankful that they are safe and away from Tudor’s threat. In truth, she spends most of her days being read books by Veronique or sleeping. Anne sleeps dreamlessly, though there are faint echoes of Ned’s laughter in her mind. 

 

But perhaps the most surprising occasion of that month is when Elizabeth Rivers reads to her when Veronique comes down with a slight cold. 

 

Anne is alarmed at the news and ensures that her loyal friend is cared for appropriately. Yet with Veronique gone, none of her ladies can read to her. Veronique was in the midst of a book about Eleanor of Aquitaine and it was partially in French. None of her other ladies spoke well enough French to do so and Anne is resigned to sit there when— 

 

“I can do it, your grace.” The Rivers girl does not look the least bit wary as she grabs a hold of the book. “My french is well enough.” 

 

Anne is reminded then of how the girl was once called the Dauphine of France. _To lose so much in such little time,_ Anne thinks, _must be torturous. Has it truly only been two years since we were crowned?_ And suddenly, despite Anne’s distaste for the girl, a sliver of pity and compassion wraps itself around her heart. 

 

“Thank you,” she tells the girl, her voice thick with sudden emotion. 

 

Elizabeth nods obediently, though her eyes do not meet Anne’s gaze. 

 

The girl speaks for hours on end, until her voice is hoarse and her lips dry. She does it the next day and then the next until the book is over, by which point Veronique has recovered from her illness. But Anne still lets the girl do it anyway. If this was her way of trying to apologise for her actions with Richard, Anne would not be so cruel as to deny her that. 

 

More days pass. 

 

September draws nearer and nearer. 

 

The babe in her stomach is ever restless, kicking and moving around in her stomach. Anne sometimes jests that they were trying to fight their way out of her stomach. In truth, she is glad that her child moves so much, since it is further confirmation that they are alive. 

 

And nothing brings her greater joy than knowing that. 

 

The only night where she dreams is the twenty-third of August. 

 

Anne is surrounded by a field of blinding white and then — 

 

“Anne.” 

 

“Izzy,” she breathes, rushing over to her sister. It is rather like how it was all those months ago, when Anne was on her deathbed and had thought herself in heaven. 

 

They hug each other tightly and Anne is overjoyed to see her sister. 

 

“You’ve done so well, Anne,” her sister tells her. “So well.” 

 

“I miss you,” Anne says. “Some part of me still can not believe that you are no longer here with me.” 

 

Izzy smiles sadly at her. 

 

“I miss you too,” is as she says. 

 

They are both silent for a few moments and Anne— 

 

“Will I die?” she blurts out, unable to contain herself. “Will I die, giving birth to this child?” 

 

Izzy does not respond. 

 

“It will not grieve me terribly, so long as the child lives,” Anne insists. “Though I would not want to leave Richard alone.” 

 

“I can not answer that,” Izzy replies honestly. “Just be well, Anne. Have faith.” 

 

“And Ned?” Anne questions suddenly, in search of her son. “Where is he?” 

 

“Waiting for you,” Izzy responds. “Until your time comes.” 

 

“And when shall that be?” Anne counters. 

 

“Only God knows that, Annie,” Isabel replies, her voice growing fainter as— 

 

Anne wakes to a pool of water between her legs and a pain in her stomach. Her gasp of pain is loud and— 

 

“Anne?” Veronique asks, alarmed. 

 

But Anne can not respond, for in that pool of water there is almost traces of blood coming from between her legs. 

 

“The midwives!” Anne yells. “Get them now!” 

 

The pool of blood and water grew larger and larger until it stained the blankets on top of her. 

 

And Anne— 

 

Anne — 

 

xviii. 

 

It is the eve of battle and yet all Richard can think of is Anne. 

 

_Is she alive?_ he wonders constantly, _are she and the babe alright?_

 

Francis tries to reassure him of Anne’s wellbeing. All of his most trusted councillors do. But Richard is sick to his stomach with unbearable worry, can barely focus on battle plans when Anne is in such peril. He still has so much to make right with her. There are still so many wounds which they need to fix between them. If he wins this battle with Tudor, it would have all been for naught if Anne was dead. 

 

Night has settled and Richard has retreated to his chamber and he is sick with doubt and dread and worry when— 

 

“Dickon!” Francis bursts into the tent, his expression wild as he approaches Richard at his desk. “We have received word from Ludlow Castle!” Richard eyes the letter in Francis’s hand and his heart leaps when he recognises Anne’s seal. 

 

Richard snatches the letter from his hand like he were a starving child and the letter his meal and cares not for how mad he must appear. _Anne Anne Anne_ his mind repeats like a drum, _please be alive, my God, please live, please—_

 

“Her labour has begun,” Richard gasps, reading Anne’s shaky writing. “She is alive Francis!” he exclaims, jubilant. His relief makes him crumble to his knees as he croaks out, “She lives, Francis! She is bringing our child into the world as we speak! I must win, Francis. I must. There is no other choice!” 

 

Anne is alive and there is hope that he will live to taste her mouth once more, to feel her body beneath his skin, to experience her love and that is enough reason to make Richard ready to kill all of Tudor’s army with his hands. Tudor may have an army but Richard has Anne and that is more than all the treasure in the world. 

Richard has a child to meet as well. A child to love and to name and to hold but— 

 

But first there is a battle to be won and Richard— 

 

Richard _will_ win it. 

 

He will. 

 

— 

 

And so he does. 

 

The battle is long and bloody and painful. His body aches and arrows fly right by his head and his soldiers fall and some of his friends fall— Courtney, Howard and others— and he kills. By God, he kills so much. His crown gleams on his head and though Richard knows he promised Anne he would not do anything reckless, he could not resist this one thing. 

 

“If Tudor wants it so badly,” he had told Sir Robert when he had asked. “He can come get it himself.” 

 

Soldiers target him constantly but Richard powers through it because _Anne Anne Anne._ He kills those who came close and Francis, Hal Percy, Sir Robert and John de la Pole guard him closely as the battle goes on around them and Richard — 

 

He _kills_ and _kills_ until it seems that his sword will be stained with blood forever. 

 

Hours have dragged on in bloodshed and— 

 

Sir Robert leaps in front of him, the arrow meant for Richard piercing his throat, killing him instantly. But Richard does not have the time to grieve, to comprehend this loss because the battle rages on and Anne is waiting for him. Anne and their child live, and he will not let her down. Not again. Never again. 

 

The battle is lengthy and vicious but Richard fights on until the last. His shoulder is tired. His heart is so tired of this. He thinks of Ned as he watches his men around him, thinks of how he will never fight for to see his wife again as Richard does, fight to get to meet his unborn child. 

 

His victory, when it comes, is bloody and desperate but it is _his._

 

“Anne,” he gasps, when his sword is finally loose. 

 

“Anne.” 

 

ix. 

 

Richard wastes not a moment before riding for Ludlow Castle. 

 

The pain in his shoulder is blinding and his men are aching and victory is still singed in his bones and Richard has a country to govern but Anne and his child are his every thought and care. He does not listen to his advisors request for him to rest, merely glares at them when they say that he will burn out, going on like this. 

 

He gasps loudly when Ludlow Castle comes into view and cares not if people hear him when he says, “I’m coming, Anne. Wait for me.” 

 

The instant he is within the castle gates, he clambers down his horse and races for the door. He ignores everyone who approaches him, blindly running towards Anne chambers. 

 

“Where is she?” he calls out, to no one in particular. “How is she?” 

 

Richard has barely managed to clean himself of the blood staining his skin, is still wearing parts of his armour. _I must look like a madman,_ he thinks fleetingly, _I am a madman._

 

He halts in front of her chamber door when he catches sight of his mother and though part of him knows he should go to her, he can not find it within himself to. His mother sends him an understanding smile as she glances to the door and Richard is momentarily convinced that Anne is alright before he catches sight of the bloody sheets. They’re piled in a basket, blood stained sheets that Richard knows came from Anne and— 

 

He nearly falls to his knees. 

 

He makes his way to the door, unable to bear not knowing any longer. Someone cries out his name— who, he is not sure— but he pays them no heed, pushing the door open and letting it slam with a sudden bang. 

 

_Anne Anne Anne—_

 

He finds her laying on her bed, her eyes closed. She is dressed in a white nightgown, looking deathly pale and fragile against the large pillows surrounding her. Her lips are thin strips of whiteness. There is not an ounce of colour on her face. 

 

_She’s dead,_ he thinks, moments before hysteria hits. The pain is greater than any physical wound he has ever endured and Richard is about to crumble to his knees and howl like a wolf when he notices her chest rising and falling. 

 

He lets out a sob as he staggers to her bedside, his knees hitting the ground painfully as he buries his head in the space beside her. 

 

“You’re alive,” he sobs, his shoulders shaking. 

 

It takes little time for her to wake and even less for her to start comforting him. Her hands stroke his hair as she hushes him. 

 

“Shh, my love,” she whispers, her voice coarse. “I am well.” 

 

“I thought you were dead,” he croaks, lifting his head to press fervent kisses to her skin. “I love you. I love you so much.” 

 

“I love you,” she whispers, smiling widely at him. 

 

His heart catches in his throat at how radiant she looks and— 

 

“The child?” he questions, his heart skipping a beat as he looks around the room. “Where—“ He looks at Anne, bewildered. 

 

Anne smiles at him brightly, her blue eyes twinkling. 

 

“We need not worry whether our babe be a boy or girl, my lord,” she tells him. 

 

Richard tilts his head in confusion. 

 

“Anne, what do you—“ 

 

“For we have one of each,” she interrupts, pressing a finger to his lips. 

 

Richard then becomes aware of two of her ladies approaching Anne’s bed with a bundle in each of their arms and Richard’s breath is taken away as they carefully place both babes in Anne’s awaiting arms. Richard climbs onto the bed in order to get a better look at his child— at his _children._

 

“They are so beautiful,” he murmurs, awestruck. 

 

“I know,” Anne says proudly. “I feel as though my heart will burst due to my love for them.” 

 

“I feel the same,” he says, unable to draw his eyes away from them. 

 

They’re so small, his children. Yet so beautiful. The crowns of their heads are covered in wisps of dark hair like his own. 

 

“Shall we name them?” Anne asks quietly, so as not to take them. 

 

“You may name them as you choose,” he tells her, looking at her. “You gave them to me. The least I can do is let you name them.” 

 

Anne smiles at him and presses a kiss on his cheek. 

 

“They shall have their own names,” she announces, staring at the two babes in her arms. 

 

“Eleanor, for our daughter,” she says. “I think Eleanor is a good name. There are far too many Anne’s and Elizabeth’s wondering around.” 

 

“It is a beautiful name,” Richard tells her, meaning it with all his heart. “My dear Eleanor.” 

 

_My daughter._

 

“And the boy?” 

 

Anne is quiet for a moment. 

 

“I know I said that they shall have their own names,” she murmurs, staring at their son. “But I wish to name him, Edmund, after your brother. Edmund, the first of his name.” 

 

Richard is taken aback by the decision. He barely knew Edmund but he had mourned for him all the same when he died. He did not have a strong relationship with him, but he did love him. And so Richard blinks back tears as he thanks her. 

 

“My lovely Anne,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 

 

They bask in their happiness for a while, content to watch their children sleep. 

 

“I shall make the world a better place for them,” he promises her. 

 

Anne glances at him, the tender look in her eye making his heart warm. 

 

“And for me?” 

 

Richard smiles at her, his love for her so strong it could burn down a city. 

 

“For you, my love,” he says, “For you, I will do anything.” 

 

— 

 

End. 

 


End file.
